The Sword and the Needle
by JKarrEagle
Summary: A brutal assault brings an already-depressed Taryn to the brink of suicide. But an unexpected rescue takes her to a new life, far from Court, where she discovers new meaning and even happiness and love. But the past isn't so easy to escape-especially when you may be carrying Faerie's future... (Trigger Warning: rape, depression, PTSD, suicidal ideation.)
1. Chapter 1: Silence

**(Note: I have written out certain characters, such as Oak and the royal princesses, as being extraneous to my story. I have also made certain other changes to the characters and settings for convenience's sake.)**

**(Disclaimer: ****Please be advised that this is fan fiction based off characters and events in Holly black's **_**The Folk of the Air**_** series. I claim no ownership of these characters or the books or copyright they are based off of. This work is not intended for profit or publication, but for entertainment only, for users of . Use of anyone else's copy is purely coincidental.)**

Silence

It's been a year since I've spoken a single word in public. I know, because Madoc just told me.

"Taryn," he says, "you haven't spoken a single word in public for a full year. What is the matter?"

He really wants to know, that's the hurtful part. His cat's eyes are concerned in his craggy face. He really wants to help.

I shrug. I used to talk to Madoc easily enough, but lately it's gotten harder and harder.

"Answer me, Taryn." His voice takes on a dangerous edge.

"I…it's hard." My voice comes out hoarse and slow. I cough. "It's hard for me to talk these days."

This is true, but not the whole truth. The truth is, I decided a long time ago, without quite being consciously aware of my decision, that I wouldn't talk. After all, if speaking to a faerie is bound to get you into dire trouble at some point and you live your life surrounded by them, why should you speak? It's maladaptive. (I smile a little, savoring my inner vocabulary: _maladaptive._ I may not talk, but I still love words.)

Outside, I can hear my sister Jude's voice raised in challenge as she practices swordplay with Madoc's knights. Jude would never take on silence as I have done. She's never afraid to speak out, even to Prince Cardan. She goes to every event, even still goes to class.

I stopped going to class six months ago. School was a miserable purgatory, and it's not like I was learning anything there—but try persuading Jude of that. She spent the better part of an afternoon yelling at me about how weak I was and how I was making both me and her look bad in front of our so-called classmates, did I want to confirm their opinion that we were a pair of worthless mortals, etc., etc., etc.

I didn't respond to her then. I didn't say a single word. Eventually, she gave up.

"_Why _is it hard?" Madoc's sharp, interrogative voice jerks me back to the present. "Are you ill?" Then, the perennial cry of the frustrated parent: "What's the _matter _with you?"

He sounds just like he's my father. Which is pretty ironic, considering.

Want to know why my sisters and I are here in Faerie, even though Jude and I are both completely human and Vivienne half so? Here's the deal: our mother was human. She used to be married to Madoc here in Faerie. She was pregnant with his daughter, Vivienne, when she ran off with Jude's and my father, a human man, back to Earth. It took Madoc ten years to track her down, but track her down he did. Jude and I were seven years old, Vivienne nine.

He murdered our parents in front of us. To avenge his so-called honor, he murdered the woman he loved and her husband. Then, because we were all his wife's daughters, he assumed responsibility for all of us and took us to Faerie as his adoptive daughters.

This is fairly typical of Faerie laws and dealings. And you wonder why I don't talk?

The sick part is, he loves us. He really does. And, in a dreadful way, I love him. He's the only father I've got.

So it hurts me to see his anxiety. I force out the words: "Nothing. I just don't want to talk."

He lets out an impatient huff of breath and paces to the window. We're in his study, overlooking his lands. Outside, Faerie spreads in gorgeous array. The island we are on—one of the islands of the High King's court—is like a glowing green jewel in a sea of sapphire. Even at my worst times—even when I feel like I will be sick at the next sight of a single faerie—I gulp down the beauty of this place. It feeds my soul, even as I shiver in disgust or shrink for fear.

Or it used to. Lately, I haven't been able to take pleasure in anything, even Faerie's beauty.

"Silence can be a good strategy," he says at last. "It can hide one from one's enemies…hide one's intentions. But, like all strategies, it cannot be used in every situation. Every campaign is won differently." He turns back to me. "What campaign are you fighting, Taryn?"

It's typical that he'd use military imagery here: he's a general, the finest King Eldred has. He's also a redcap; he loves war and hungers for it as a pixie hungers for honey. We've had a long period of peace, and it makes him irritable.

I shrug. Adolescent, I know, but there's no way I can tell him that I am campaigning for survival: that every day is a war for a human girl at the High Court, surrounded by creatures that can kill you at a snap of their fingers, and many that wish to. That, back when I was still attending class, I had to screw up my courage before I went to school with the sneering Gentry children, or even left the house. That the slightest misstep, the slightest word, could lead to disaster. And it's better not to speak at all than to say that fatal word.

There's a tap at the door, and Oriana, Madoc's wife, my stepmother, steps in. "Have you lectured her enough?" she asks him. "The dressmaker's here, with the girls' gowns." She smiles at me, and I smile back.

Madoc waves a huge, clawed hand. "Very well." He fixes me with a hard gaze. "I expect you to talk to someone at the ball tomorrow night, Taryn. At least say hello to Prince Balekin."

I stiffen at this, and Oriana comes alert behind me. Madoc raises an eyebrow. "Did you two think I hadn't noticed? How could I miss a High Prince paying attention to my daughter?" He eyes me like I'm a recalcitrant warhorse. "Be pleasant to him, Taryn. His favor could get us far."

My insides shrivel at the very idea. I look at the floor and curtsy silently.

He waves me off with an exasperated sigh. I accompany Oriana down the hallway to the stair, down to her parlor where the dressmaker is waiting.

Oriana gives me one of her gentle smiles. "He's right, you know," she says. "The Prince's attentions are a good thing, truly. Think of the wealth and influence you could attain if everyone knew you had his favor!"

She means, the wealth she and Madoc could attain. From selling me like a prize pig at the market. I look away.

My older sister Vivienne is already in the parlor, being gowned in a glorious creation of sunset-pink. "Hi, Taryn. Back from Daddy Dearest's latest lecture?"

Oriana frowns at her. "Respect, Vivienne."

Vivi rolls her eyes. "Right." Despite being Madoc's biological daughter—or maybe _because_ of it—she's always hated him the most. There's none of the confusion or ambiguity Jude and I experience: she hates him, plain and simple, for killing our parents and kidnapping us. She hates Faerie too, and has stated numerous times that she intends to leave the minute she can persuade me and Jude that it's a good idea, and never come back. But we've tried living Ironside: it's awful. Like fish trying to live in the sky like birds.

I have no place in the human world. And Vivi's right when she says I'll never truly have a place here, Balekin or no Balekin. So why should I speak? What do I have to say?

I go behind a screen, where our lady's maid, Tatterfell, helps me on with the dress for the ball tomorrow night, a shining, silken blue dream of a gown, embroidered with silver starlight. Once, its beauty would have soothed me, pleased me. Now I feel nothing.

There's actually a word for this condition: _anhedonia_. The inability to feel pleasure in anything. Strange that so a lovely word describes so awful a state.

Lifting up the hem, I step carefully back out and stand like a statue on a stool while the seamstress bustles around me, making the final adjustments. She's a little old hob woman, with wrinkled bark-skin and beetle-black eyes. Her fingers flash, faster and defter than any human's. I wonder if she's so deft among her spinners, the great spiders that all weavers and seamstresses keep, as their silk is the best fixative for the light and shadow, the million shades and colors of nature that faeries draw out, bind and spin onto the silk to make thread. (_Fixative. _Another lovely word.)

Oriana stands back, watching critically as the seamstress makes the last few stitches. "That will do," she says at last, when I stand in resplendent array. She looks me up and down. "You will make a fine showing tomorrow night, Taryn. Even more so if you speak to someone," she can't resist adding.

"Oh, leave her alone." Vivienne's already fidgeting, yearning to get her fancy dress off. "She shouldn't have to speak if she doesn't want to." She cranes to look out the window. "What's going on?"

I lean over to look too; there's some kind of commotion out there. I hear the voice of the head of Madoc's knights, raised in respectful greeting, and I have an idea who's coming even before he steps into view.

Just as I thought: it's Prince Balekin. My stomach tightens.

"Oh!" Oriana rushes about. "Get back in your normal clothes, girls, and do something about your hair, Vivienne. Then come to the lesser parlor to greet him—and no rudeness, Vivienne!" At least Vivienne's perennial lack of manners overshadows my silence. Not that Balekin seems to mind. My guts knot themselves as I step off the stool.

Back in my normal afternoon dress, Tatterfell runs a brush through my hair. "Smile, Miss Taryn," she instructs kindly. "You want to look nice for the prince, don't you?"

No, I don't. But I don't say anything, just give her a quick, grimacing smile.

Once dressed, I head to the lesser parlor to stand with Vivienne and Oriana, waiting. There's a rush of movement, and Jude comes running in, in her own dress, still looking flushed and fit from the practice field. As always, I'm amazed by how we identical twins can look so different: her eyes sparkle and her arms and legs are muscular, while I'm thinner, my eyes darker and more opaque every time I look in the mirror. I'm also much paler, and my face is losing more expression with every passing day.

"Oh, good, he's not here yet," Jude says briskly. Indeed, we can hear Madoc greeting the Prince out in the hall. "I wonder why he keeps dropping in like this?"

She's right: it _is _becoming a pattern. Not every day, but often enough, Balekin visits Madoc's stronghold, perhaps for dinner, but more often in the afternoon. It's never anything important. He just sits and talks about inconsequentials, such as all the helpless animals he's killed this week.

And he always insists on me being present. Always, he finds a reason why I should be there. Even though I never say a word, somehow, his visit just isn't complete without me. And he spends more and more time staring at me, like a cat stares at a mouse.

Now the door opens and Balekin comes in, followed closely by Madoc. We women all curtsy. I keep my head down, but feel his gaze on me.

"Good afternoon, ladies. It's a pleasure to see you again." His voice, even at its warmest, still hints of cold.

"The pleasure is ours, Your Highness," Oriana says, rising from her curtsy. "Please, will you take refreshment?" She indicates the tray of teas and cakes.

"I believe I will." Balekin takes a cake and sits down, giving the rest of us tacit leave to sit as well. Oriana immediately takes up her latest lacemaking project, pulling it onto her lap in a snowy spill. "What are you making, Lady Oriana?"

She holds it up. "A veil." The lace shines and gleams in delicate traceries: it looks like frost and snowflakes and networks of ice. Oriana is very skilled at lacemaking, despite the fact that it's considered low class: she's always got something she's making. I used to spend hours with her here in the parlor, embroidery needle flashing while her bobbins clacked, both of us happy while we created beautiful things. I've always felt closer to her than to Madoc, and she's always cared for me. When I stopped going to class, she defended me from Madoc's anger, saying that much of what was taught in class wasn't useful for a mortal (very true), and she could teach me all I needed to know about running a household (also true, if only I could concentrate enough to learn).

I still spend most of my time with her; there's nowhere else for me to go, since I stopped going to class, and then stopped leaving the house. But I haven't been able to pay much attention to her home economics lessons. I also haven't been able to embroider, sew, make lace or do anything else. I just can't concentrate enough to listen, or finish anything. So I watch Oriana, or, increasingly, stare out the window.

Oriana says something else polite, while I keep my gaze down, avoiding looking at Balekin. It's ridiculous—he's not going to hurt me, not here in Madoc's stronghold, under Madoc's eye—but his stare makes me feel like filthy fingers crawling over me. I fiddle with a cake, but don't eat any. I don't have much of an appetite lately, and even less when Balekin's around.

"…And your daughters are, as ever, a delight," Balekin's saying. "Miss Jude, I saw you in the practice field. You are becoming a formidable warrior. And your sister—" My stomach clenches as his gaze burns right on me. "—Is lovely as ever, even silent."

"I've tried numerous times to break that silence." Madoc glowers at me. "But she's recalcitrant. Won't you even greet the Prince, Taryn?"

"No." Balekin waves a hand. "Let her keep her silence if she chooses." He turns more fully to me. "The mountain wisps are as silent as you, floating through the air. It makes them very difficult to stalk." He gives a hard laugh. "But I managed."

I bite the inside of my lip, hoping none of my disgust shows on my face. I hate listening to Balekin talk about the screaming animals he's butchered lately, but of course there's no way to avoid it. Balekin's the greatest hunter at Court—possibly the greatest ever. They say that Hollow Hall, his seat, is full of the pelts and antlers of his kills, and there are ranks and ranks of hunting weapons. And it's not just sport hunting, either, with horns and fanfare and an entourage spilling behind him in a big show. Balekin's very dedicated and very skilled, stalking his prey on foot, alone, through the most dangerous terrain, and hauling his kills back himself. They say that birds in the forest go silent when they see him coming. I can well understand their feelings.

So I sit, silent as the birds, while he tells us—and, more particularly, me—all about how he killed the mountain wisps. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Vivienne just barely keep herself from rolling her eyes. She may not be disgusted by talk of hunting, but she's bored to tears by it. Jude, meanwhile, actually seems halfway interested, listening attentively and asking Balekin searching, well-informed questions. So why does he keep brushing her off to talk to me? Or, rather, talk _at_ me, as I make no response and he doesn't demand one.

"Sounds like a difficult day in the field," Oriana says while he takes a drink, perhaps in an attempt to shut him up.

He finishes his tea and grins appreciatively. His grin isn't quite as ferocious as Madoc's, but it's unnerving enough. "Mountain wisps are challenging, Lady Oriana, but they do not represent the true apotheosis of the art."

"Oh? What does?" Jude asks curiously.

He bares his teeth again at her. "The manticore."

"The manticore?" Madoc raises an eyebrow at this. "That certainly would pose the greatest challenge for a hunter—if it didn't turn the hunt around and make you the prey."

"You've seen a manticore, haven't you, General?" Finally Balekin takes his eyes from me, turning to Madoc.

"Once." Madoc takes a grim sip of tea. "From a distance. It was the most magnificent and fearsome sight of my life. I would not wish to see such a thing close at hand—at least, not unprepared."

"Still." Balekin's face takes on a faraway expression. "What a challenge, to hunt and kill a manticore. The ultimate challenge."

"Maybe not," Vivienne says, as if she just can't help herself. "I can think of something more challenging."

A flash of irritation crosses Balekin's face, hidden immediately. "Can you, Lady Vivienne? And what is that?"

"The unicorn," she says promptly. "The manticore may be the most dangerous beast, but the unicorn is the hardest to track. That makes it the more challenging hunt."

"Unicorns aren't just difficult to track," Madoc says. "They're impossible. It's no challenge if it can't be done at all; it's just an absurdity. Anyway, no one's seen a unicorn in over three hundred years."

"Oh, really, Dad." Vivienne's mouth twists. "What do you know about—"

"Enough!" Everyone jumps at Oriana's sudden shout. "It is a sin to try and kill a unicorn." Her hands clench her lacework. Her cheekbones are stained red and her eyes blaze: she's genuinely angered. "It's a sin to even _discuss _such a thing, even in jest. Vivienne, you will restrict your remarks to something more suitable—as will you, Madoc."

They both subside, muttering apologies. Oriana erupting in rage is rare enough that even Madoc is unnerved when it happens. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Balekin hide a smirk.

It's up to Jude to rescue the conversation. "The ball tomorrow should be fun, shouldn't it?" she says determinedly. "Can you tell us anything about the entertainments, Your Highness?"

The rest of the visit goes smoothly enough, and Balekin leaves before dinner, promising to see us all at the ball tomorrow night. As we're going our separate ways, though, Oriana pulls me aside.

"Taryn," she says, getting right to the point, "Prince Balekin was looking at you quite a lot."

I say nothing, but a flush warms my face, part embarrassment and part anger. I look away.

"He hasn't…?"

I shake my head fiercely, still looking away.

"That's good," she says with satisfaction. "There's no advantage for us to him bracing you in some corridor. When he does call for you, we want him to do it the right way."

This fills me with such anger and mortification that my tongue is freed. "I won't go to him," I say hoarsely. I cough. "He won't ask, and anyway I wouldn't go."

She sighs. "Of course you would," she says, not unkindly. "He's a Greenbriar. A Prince of the High Court. You wouldn't have a choice, any more than anyone else in Faerie. But…" She pats my arm. "It doesn't have to be a bad thing, Taryn. Think of the wealth that would come to our family!"

Oh, joy. Now I'm the family prostitute.

"And it would be good for you personally, Taryn," Oriana continues, perhaps seeing my expression. "He'd give you so many wonderful gifts…you'd make your fortune, and probably marry extremely well, to a wealthy courtier."

Yeah. Because that worked out so well for my mother. A spiteful anger forces my words up again. "What if I get pregnant?"

She purses her lips and shakes her head. She can't say it aloud—no one can criticize the royal family—but she doesn't have to point out how unlikely this is. Neither Balekin nor his two brothers, the other princes, have fathered a single child in all their combined centuries of life. There hasn't even been the _rumor _of a child. This represents a problem, because, for all faeries like to boast about their immortality, the truth is that they have a rather high death rate. The throne can't be left so insecure, without an heir in reserve. And the present king, Eldred, is getting weak.

"We'll take what we can get, Taryn," is all she says. "In the end, that's all we can do. So next time you see the Prince, smile. Smile and be pleasant. You're not going to get a better chance."

I stare at her. A better chance at what, exactly? What future do I have in this place? Being the mistress of a bloodthirsty prince, who will pass me around to his friends the minute he gets tired of me? Marriage to some faerie lord who will use me as a broodmare while despising me in his heart? Why would I want any of those things?

But what options do I have? I don't have the knowledge or education to operate in the human world. I can't use a sword and become a knight, like Jude. I can't carve a place for myself with magic, like Vivienne. And I'm completely powerless to stop Balekin, or my parents.

If he wants me, he'll have me. And there's nothing I can do to stop him.


	2. Chapter 2: Ball

**(Warning: this chapter contains a rape scene, and a flashback to a murder scene. It also includes a line taken directly from Holly Black's 2018 Kindle short story **_**The Lost Sisters**_**, as well as referencing a scene from that story.)**

Ball

When I was nine years old, I killed a faerie.

Jude doesn't know, but I know about that guard who bit off the top digit of her finger. A pixie, hissing with delighted malice, came and told me all about it, pinching and poking me, gloating as it told me the whole story: how the guard had bitten off my sister's finger, crunched it up in front of her, and promised that he would eat up the rest of her if she told anyone. How she promised she wouldn't tell ("Like a coward," the pixie specified). I think it hoped I would cower back in terror, or cry. Instead, I knocked it out of the air, turned around, and went to find Madoc.

He listened, grim-faced, as I told him everything. When I finished, he said, "You did the right thing in telling me, Taryn. Rest assured, he will be punished."

I let out a long sigh of relief. "What about Jude?"

"Leave her alone. She promised she wouldn't tell. We mustn't impugn her honor."

I blinked at this. Even at age nine, I thought this was rather missing the point. But, of course, I couldn't argue. I curtsied and said, "Of course."

He nodded approval. "Come to the back training yard at sunset tonight."

I promised I would, and he dismissed me.

That night, I went to the training yard expecting—what? Perhaps to see the perpetrator whipped and cowering, promising never to do it again, before being tossed out on his ear, his own finger cut off. That would have been justice. When I arrived, I saw the perpetrator, all right: trussed up like a sheep for butchering, breath labored and eyes wide with terror, while Madoc stood over him with a long, wickedly sharp knife.

"Ah, Taryn, just in time," he said. He gave his prisoner a swift kick, and the guard moaned. "I got this scut to confess everything."

"My lord…General…" whispered the guard pathetically. "Please…"

"Do you think begging will spare your life?" Madoc demanded coldly. "You attacked one of my family. You let your personal feelings take precedence over my orders. I have no use for a guard who assaults my daughter. I have no use for a soldier without discipline, who cannot follow my orders. You're worthless, and you'll die for it." And with that, Madoc bent down and stuffed a gag into his prisoner's mouth.

Then he turned to me and held out the knife. "Here," he said. "Cut his throat."

I reeled back. "Me?"

"Of course. It was your sister he assaulted. Normally I'd let Jude do it herself, but she gave her word and we mustn't insult her honor. Now finish him, and get revenge."

Still I shrank back. "Can't I just…cut off his finger?" The very thought made me gag, but it was better than the alternative. "I mean, he didn't _kill _Jude—"

"_Taryn_." Madoc surged at me, and I shut up. "It's weakness like that that gets people killed. When you identify an enemy, you don't just slap back and give them a chance to turn it into a vendetta. When you identify an enemy, you _eliminate _them. You destroy the threat. That's how you become strong. That's how you become powerful. Now kill him, like I've taught you, and get vengeance for your sister, as is your duty."

Slowly, I came forward. I took the knife. It was heavy in my hands, awkward. I knelt down by the prisoner. His red eyes bugged out, and he wriggled away from me, whimpering.

Madoc had taught me how to slice through an animal's throat, so the lifeblood drained in seconds. It turned out to be true for faeries, too. His blood surged out under my blade, a wave of scorching red. I tried not to let it get on my hands or dress, but of course it did. I lurched back, bloody skirt clinging to my knees, bloody hands shaking, and sobbed as the faerie's eyes dimmed and he subsided silently into death.

"Well done." Madoc laid a hand on my shoulder, and I was too numb to shrug it away. "Very good, Taryn. You're better with knives than I thought." He took the knife away from me, wiping it on a rag, then held it out to me. "Would you like to keep it?"

Mutely, I shook my head. No words seemed equal to the occasion.

Madoc shrugged and sheathed it. "Don't look like that, Taryn," he said. "You did the right thing tonight. You avenged your sister—not that you should tell her, of course. We don't want to injure her pride. But you avenged her, and administered discipline, and that is a fine and honorable thing. You were strong, and you should feel proud."

I had never felt weaker. I had never felt more sunk with shame and degradation. I kept seeing that faerie's final moments, how the life drained out of his eyes. I couldn't stop seeing it.

Madoc hugged me gently. "It gets easier with time. I promise." He pushed me away. "Now go get cleaned up. You mustn't wander the house like that."

Somehow, I curtsied. Somehow, I made it out of that courtyard. Then, the moment I was out of Madoc's sight, I crashed to my knees and vomited all over the ground.

Madoc made no official announcement of the execution, but word must have gotten around. No one in Madoc's household, servant or soldier, ever tormented me or my sister again. For a long time after the incident, retainers avoided my gaze, edging around me. It didn't make me feel any better.

Jude's finger healed. I never told her or anyone else what happened. I watched her dully after that night: how she walked with her head upright, a faint smile on her lips, carrying the bandage on her finger like it was a prize she'd won in a game. She didn't know or care about the dead faerie. She was _proud_, I realized at last: proud of how she bore the pain and horror all on her own, how she didn't tell anyone. And Madoc was proud of her, too, just as he was proud of me for killing a helpless, trussed up prisoner. They both thought that bearing pain and delivering death proved their power, their strength, their worthiness.

But killing that whimpering faerie didn't make me powerful or worthy. All it did was prove just how powerless I was.

After Oriana's little talk, I'm not exactly in the mood for a ball, especially not at the royal palace. But, as ever, I have no choice.

"What's going on in here?" Oriana pops her head into my room, where I am delaying getting dressed. "Taryn, why aren't you ready?"

I can't meet her eyes. I shrug.

"She's refusing to get dressed," Tatterfell says, sounding harassed.

"Taryn." Oriana's voice takes on a dangerous timber. "Stop being ridiculous. You have to attend the ball. Get dressed."

"What's going on?" Jude wanders down the hall, resplendent in her sunlight-on-leaves dress. She peers in at me. "What's the matter with _you_?"

I can't look at her, either. "I don't want to go," I mumble.

"Oh, don't be such a weakling. You want the Court of Grackles to learn that you're afraid of one ball? Here, I'll help." She and Oriana both descend on me, and, with Tatterfell's assistance, I'm tricked out for the royal ball in no time.

I do look good. In the mirror, I see a dark-eyed girl with elaborately worked dark hair, arrayed in silver-embroidered twilight cloth, silver and sapphires gleaming in my ears, at my wrists and neck, and in my hair. The only thing missing is a smile, and maybe a bit more sparkle in my eyes. I'm going to a ball. I should be excited, happy.

But I'm sick of pretending.

Oriana starts hustling us down to the waiting carriage. Tatterfell kisses me on the forehead, lips like rough bark. "Have a good time, Miss Taryn," she says. "Remember to enjoy yourself."

I manage a small smile for her, and follow Oriana out.

Down by the front entrance, the carriage is already waiting. Madoc and Vivienne are waiting too. Madoc gives me an irate (nice word) look, while Vivi sneaks a small smirk. She likes it when any of us makes trouble for Madoc.

"Well, at least you're here," Madoc growls. "In you get."

All throughout the carriage ride, I keep my head down, looking out the window through the corner of my eye. The lights of the fey flash through the trees, and there are squeals of laughter, and sudden, excited scurries through the underbrush. A royal ball brings out everyone, even the common faeries. I see a figure standing by the roadside, and turn my head to look at it fully. It's a tree goblin, one of the wild fey, decked out with feathers and strings of beads. His crest of stiff, spiky hairs stands high, and his prehensile tail weaves lazily around his ankles. He gives me a salute as we go by, and I look away again.

And there's the royal palace, shining brighter than any mortal building, with the moonlit ocean beyond, and the lights of the mortal world beyond that. I find myself staring at those lights as we get out of the coach; what, really, do I remember of the seven years I spent there? On those occasions Vivi takes us to Earth, exploring or shopping in human malls, it all seems so unreal.

The royal ballroom of the High Court is a marvelous, ever-changing place. Tonight, it's a tropical rainforest, with spices floating on the air, liana vines hanging from bright green trees, heavy flowers breathing dizzying perfume. A warm stream provides a venue for the water fey, who coo and hold up clawed hands for cups of wine. Courtiers drift in their incomparable gowns and suits, talking and eating elegant snacks, before the dancing starts. King Eldred sits on a living throne blooming with flowers, talking to one of his senior courtiers; led by Madoc, we all march up to make our bows and curtsies.

"Ah, General," the King says. He runs a flat, uninterested glance over us. "And your lovely daughters, I see."

Straightening from my curtsy, I look around apprehensively for Balekin. But he's not here right now: just the middle prince, Dain, hovering around the King as always. "They're growing up," Dain says to Madoc. "I expect you'll be wanting to get them married soon." He hands his father a glass of wine.

Eldred takes it with a gesture of that speaks of utter ennui. He looks both very bored and very tired. "Yes, I expect you will, General."

"Naturally, Your Majesty." Madoc's eyes flick between Dain and Vivienne, who utterly ignore one another.

"And then I expect they'll make you a grandfather," Eldred says, a note of malice entering his voice. He gives Dain a sidelong, vicious look. "Not like _my_ sons—barren as iron sticks, the lot of them. Not a single child off any of them, and it's not for their lack of trying."

The courtiers titter as Dain goes white with mortification. Eldred's been doing this more and more: making nasty digs about his three sons' lack of offspring. You can hear his anger and disappointment in every syllable, and he has reason: if one of the Greenbriar princes doesn't produce an heir soon, the line stands in danger of losing the throne. Faerie can't risk having a High King without an heir. But the possibility seems remote: none of the princes, in six hundred years, has fathered a child, and, as Eldred said, it's not for their lack of trying.

Part of me feels sorry for Dain. But mostly I'm too busy watching for Balekin to care about Dain's troubles.

We make our goodbyes and step away. Madoc immediately starts a conversation with another redcap. Oriana stops to talk to another court lady. Vivi nibbles nuts, looking bored. Jude glances around. She'd never admit it, but I know she's looking for Cardan. She hates his guts, and with reason, but I sometimes think she _enjoys_ sparring with him. She certainly seems to seek out their confrontations.

But it's the palace schoolteacher, Noggle, who finds Jude, wandering up with an amiable smile. "Hello, Miss Jude," he says warmly. Jude's one of his favorite students. "Care to look at the stars with me later?"

"Certainly, Master Noggle," she says politely, as she's bound to. He's one of the greatest teachers in Faerie, while she's a human girl; she has to say yes. Besides, she likes him. "Seen anything interesting in the sky lately?"

"Oh, yes. Just last night." He takes a drink from his glass. "There was a falling star across the constellation of the fruiting tree, and the fruits turned bright red."

This captures even Vivienne's attention. "But that means—"

"Yes." Noggle's black eyes gleam. "The birth of a royal heir." He shrugs, face carefully blank. He knows too much of the stars to disbelieve them, but he doesn't need to say how unlikely this seems.

Still, miracles can happen. For a moment I smile, thinking how nice it would be for there to be a new prince or princess at Court: a new little baby. Then I remember Oriana's little talk and turn away, mouth twisting.

Anxiously, I scan the crowd, but still I don't see Balekin. Unfortunately, I'm so busy watching for Balekin that I fail to notice the arrival of his little brother.

"Well, well, well." That familiar, loathed sneer sounds. "If it isn't the Duarte sisters, gracing us with their presence. How _do_ you find time to attend our little celebrations? Isn't your time rather…limited?"

It's Prince Cardan. Of course it is. Pale and beautiful and sneering, surrounded by his Court of Fawning Sycophants (officially they're called the Court of Grackles, but, frankly, I think the Court of Fawning Sycophants suits them much better—though, to be fair, this could describe most courtiers).

Looking at them, a memory pops into my head. It was just before I left school for good. I was reading a book while waiting for Jude to finish up tournament practice (I could still concentrate long enough to read, back then). One of the Fawning Sycophants—I don't remember which one—sidled up and asked me, "How does it feel? To be stuck in a fairy tale?"

I didn't reply. Of course, I'd pretty much stopped talking to anyone outside the family by that time, but I don't think I would have answered him even if I'd been Faerie's most outgoing, extraverted chatterbox. "How does it feel to be stuck in a fairy tale?" Honestly. What an idiotic question. What a stupid gambit.

I think he was probably the one who put that note in my rucksack, the last day I ever went to school, but I threw it away without reading it. I'm really not interested in anything a Fawning Sycophant would put in a note.

Now Vivi's eyes blaze. Noggle looks uncomfortable. But Jude turns as though she's only just seen Cardan.

"_There_ you are, Your Highness. Slow as usual." Any other Greenbriar, and Jude could have expected severe punishment for such insolence. But Cardan's been out of favor basically since he was born, and she can get away with it. "Still idling? Tsk, tsk."

He flushes under her implication. "At least _I_ have time to idle. _I'm _not going to die." He sneers at me and Jude over his glass, and the Fawning Sycophants snigger.

Jude flushes angrily, but I don't. I remember the exact moment that digs about my mortality ceased to deliver any sting.

It was when a human guest lecturer came to class, to teach us about probability and statistics (he was enchanted to believe himself lecturing at a different school than usual, which was, of course, true). Most of it went over my head, but it got me thinking about faerie lifespans.

Most faeries would be quick to say that they _have_ no lifespans; they're going to live forever. And this is, technically, possible. Faeries don't age, and don't die naturally. But, as I learned firsthand, there are more ways than simple ageing to die, and Faerie has its share of them. Even if you factor out the faerie infant mortality rate—which is quite high, for many faeries are born weak and sickly—there's still warfare and murder, malefic curses and the curious magical diseases that can lay waste to faerie populations. There are the many carnivorous predators of Faerie; for faeries who venture to the human world, there's iron and salt poisoning. There's the brutal justice of Faerie, such as Madoc forced me to deliver. There's even suicide, and simple fatal accident. Just because these dangers are relatively few and far between doesn't mean they don't exist; and every year a faerie lives, the higher the chances become that they will meet with one. When a faerie lives _forever_, it becomes _inevitable _that they will eventually encounter one lethal danger too many.

Ironic, that the very thing they boast of so much—their immortality—is what leads to each faerie's inevitable demise.

So every time Cardan or his Sycophants say, _You're going to die, _I just think, _So are you._

Which is not to say that he's not hurtful or infuriating. His cold eyes turn on me, and I clench. "This one here," he says. "Silent as the grave already."

"Would that you were so silent," Jude sneers. "You'd spare everyone a lot of grief, including yourself, Your Highness." She smiles sweetly. "For it must be _so_ dreadful, having to listen to yourself, all day long, every day. And it will go on and on and on, forever. How can you bear such an awful sentence?" She widens her eyes in faux sympathy, clutching her hands. "Poor, _poor _Cardan."

He draws in a furious breath, and now Noggle, of all people, comes to the rescue. "Your Highness," he says, bowing, "forgive me, but I must take Miss Jude away. She has said she will inspect the stars with me."

Cardan has to visibly get himself under control. He can insist that Jude stay, of course, but Noggle can report him to Eldred, who will take Noggle's side. "Of course," he says with a good approximation of magnanimity. "Go look at the stars—while you still can."

Jude looks sulky at being denied her sparring match, but follows Noggle off with one last curtsy and venomous glare. Vivienne takes the opportunity to give her own curtsy, holding my arm so I curtsy with her, and drags me off.

"Never mind that jackass," she says, although I, of course, haven't said anything and I don't think my face shows anything either. "Here, have some honey cakes."

I take one and eat it distractedly. That conversation has turned my thoughts in a most unexpected direction. Death. It should evoke fear and horror, but it doesn't. Instead, there's something almost pleasing about the idea.

Death. Being dead. No more misery. No more pain. No Madoc, no Balekin, no Cardan, no memories of my murdered parents or that faerie I killed. Not a single faerie at all, in fact. Just…nothing. It sounds like paradise.

I imagine sloughing off my body, dissolving into nothingness. All hurt falling away, all thought and emotion evaporating, as I sink into the endless sleep—

"May I have this dance, Miss Taryn?"

My fantasy shatters as my insides freeze. It's Balekin.

The dancing has begun: the tropical rainforest has retreated to the margins of the room, leaving a wide open expanse for dancing. Balekin stands resplendent in his stars-on-a-night-sky jacket, holding out a hand for me. I look around frantically, but there's no one to rescue me: Jude's off with Noggle, Vivienne is trapped talking to a senior courtier, and Madoc and Oriana are both hands-linked in the dance set. Oriana glances over and gives me a minute nod. _Go on. Accept his hand. You know you have to._

And so, with a curtsy, I do. His hand is hard and callused in mine. I let him lead me to the top of the dance.

Murmurs trail behind us like currents of water, a buzz of speculation. _That's the girl…Madoc's daughter…Is the prince…?_ My face flames, and I stare at the floor. Please, let this be over quickly.

Of course, it isn't. The dance goes on forever, in that faerie way, with the music intoxicating everyone's minds and their feet, going on and on in what seems like an eternity of glorious sound and ecstatic movement. If I was dancing with anyone else—even Cardan—I might enjoy this very much. But it's Balekin I'm dancing with, Balekin who circles around me like a shark, his eyes gleaming like a wolf's, and I am certainly not enjoying it. I just feel like prey.

"Are you enjoying your evening, Miss Taryn?" he asks above the music.

I nod. Seldom have I been more grateful for my human ability to lie.

"_I _am certainly enjoying it." Balekin's a faerie; he can't lie. So yes, he is having fun. Not that I thought otherwise, seeing his shining eyes and smiling mouth. "I haven't enjoyed a ball so much in years."

I stare at him. This is the most fun he's had in years? Dancing with a clumsy, mute, unsmiling human girl? Nearby, I see Cardan frowning at us uneasily, as though he, too, thinks this is strange. But why would he care?

Balekin's hand flickers, and a goblet of red faerie wine appears under my nose. "Have a drink." His grin is all teeth and no joy.

I can't refuse; that would give the worst possible offense. I manufacture a faint smile and drink.

It tastes amazing: liquid gold singing down my throat. Around us, the ball is getting more raucous: winged faeries are shooting through the air, courtiers are whirling like stars, and someone's been turned into a rabbit, hopping across the floor in startled, panicked bewilderment. I giggle a little, watching its progress, and notice that the goblet is empty. When did I drink the whole thing?

Balekin gently takes my arm, and I stumble a little as we leave the dance floor. I must be drunker than I realized. I smile muzzily at Cardan, the only one watching us leave. I can't think why he looks so worried.

Grass bends beneath our feet. We are far from the ball, out in the royal gardens. Alone. And I realize that _I'm _more than a little worried myself.

I stiffen, but Balekin draws me on, beneath the blazing stars of Faerie, through the shadows of the midnight garden. It's so hard to think through the haze of that wine; I can't imagine how I'm supposed to get away.

"Taryn." My name is a hiss in his mouth. His eyes on my face are greedy, devouring. "I don't know what it is about you, Taryn. You're not beautiful. You're a mortal. But it's _you _I think about at night…" He leans closer; his breath comes in hisses. "Maybe it's your silence," he whispers. "Yes, I think that's it. That silence…so intoxicating…"

His lips are parted; his face comes down at mine. I react instinctively, without thought for the consequences: I wrench my head violently aside, trying to yank my wrists away. But his grip on them tightens.

"Taryn," he growls. "Don't fight me, Taryn."

And then I know true fear: a howling terror that tears at my insides, horror ripping through my soul. My slippered feet scrabble at the earth. I yank even harder, throwing my whole body away from him. I open my mouth, taking a breath to scream.

"No!" he cries, and makes a stabbing gesture at my throat. "_Silence_."

I feel the spell leap on me, take hold. _Silence._ And now, though my mouth is open and I'm screaming as hard as I can, nothing comes out. My vocal cords are frozen. My voice imprisoned.

I can't make a single sound.

"_Yes_." Balekin's face is livid now, monstrous. I've never seen such naked lust, such soulless hunger. "Yes, _silence_. Don't make a sound, Taryn. Don't ruin it."

Please, someone come—anyone, even Cardan! But no one comes, and now Balekin is dragging me to the ground, so strong, so large, his clawed hands everywhere, tearing my dress, oh, the dress Madoc paid so much for, it's ruined now, and I'm on my back and he's kneeing my legs apart while pulling up my skirt—

I scream, but no sound comes out. Balekin's spell is a vise, tight around my throat. I claw at his face, and he laughs, eyes gleaming like a beast's in the moonlight. I look around frantically for a weapon—a rock even—but there's nothing to hand, and then—

I choke on the pain as he stabs into me. Over and over, my head knocking against the ground, my back scraped raw, he stabs into me, moaning and whispering my name. I stop trying to scream. I stop trying to fight. I lie, brain an utter blank, while he thrusts into me and I can do nothing. Nothing.

At last, he withdraws, pulling out of me. It hurts almost as much as the penetration. Gasping, he rolls over, panting hard. I roll away from him, drawing my knees up to my chest. That brings another flash of pain, and I let out another soundless cry.

This can't have happened. This can't be happening. Please, let this not be happening.

"Taryn." I convulse, trying desperately to break away, as his hand takes the bare flesh of my arm, but he holds tight. He rolls me over, forcing me to face him. His eyes are golden, heartless and shining. "I lay this geas on you, Taryn," he says, low and hard. "That, by neither word nor deed, will you let anyone, in either world, know of what has passed between us tonight. Ever."

And the second curse takes hold, settling in my bones like an ice-cold fever. I sob, silently, and barely notice as he stands and walks away, back to the party.

I try to sit up, but agony flashes through my abdomen. I fall back, crying out—but no sound comes. My stomach roils, hot chaos, and I roll over to vomit, vomit like I've never vomited before, even when I killed that faerie, vomit until only a nasty thin bile comes forth and the finest food of Faerie lies splattered on the ground, reduced to slime and foul lumps and vile-smelling fluid.

My eyes are blurred with tears, but I can't make a single noise. I try to call out—_Jude! Oriana! Vivienne!_—but their names don't emerge. Only voiceless air passes my moving lips. The tears roll down my face. _Mommy. Daddy._

Above me, the moon glows glorious in a field of dagger-bright stars. I hate it. I hate the moon, and the stars, and the night sky, and the gardens, and the velvet shadows. How dare they be so lovely, when _this _has happened?

I have to get away from that moon. I can't stand, but have to drag myself along the ground. I crawl beneath a large moonflower bush, its blossoms softly glowing, and curl up into a ball in the dark hollow underneath, tears soaking my skirt. I hurt. Inside and out, I hurt.

The night whirls around me. Again I see Balekin's beautiful, bestial face; again I feel his savage thrusts. The stabs of a knife, laying me bare, tearing open my body, stabbing into my soul. I feel so dirty. How is it possible to feel so filthy?

I should get up—I have to get up. But now nothingness is welling up, like black water rising, and I welcome the rising of the water, erasing my thoughts, erasing my being, and Oriana will be so angry about the dress but now the darkness is rising and if this is death then let me die.


	3. Chapter 3: Unicorn

Unicorn

I awake to silence.

Around me, the night is still. I can't hear anything, not even a single insect chirp. But still, something is there.

I stir, lifting my head, crawling forward. Pain flashes, and I give a soundless cry. But something draws me out. Something tugs at me, brings me crawling in agony out from under the bush.

The night is still, so still. The moonlight is brighter than ever in my life, and I can clearly see what has caused the night to hold its breath.

It's a unicorn. Standing on the dew-spangled grass before me, a unicorn.

She stands before me, looking at me with huge black eyes. Her horn is a whorled star-gleam. Her hooves are cloven. Her tail lashes, a tuft of white at the end. Her mane is melted pearl. Her coat is whiter than any whiteness of the earth. A unicorn.

She steps closer, and I can smell her now: snow and flowers. Her head arcs down. Her horn descends, sharper than a sword, and despite everything I flinch back. But she doesn't cut me. She taps me gently on the head.

Warmth suffuses me. Golden streams flow through my blood. I can feel my injuries healing, the bruises easing away, torn flesh knitting itself healed, seamlessly, without trauma. Strength rushes through me, and all at once I can stand.

Shakily, I get to my feet. I open my mouth.

I'm not sure what I intend to say, but in any case, nothing comes out. I try to speak, but can make no sound, not even a rasp or a moan.

Tears sting my eyes. I guess not even a unicorn can break a Greenbriar curse.

The unicorn extends her head, touching my hand with her great soft nose. She nods her head, horn slicing within inches of my face, gesturing. Hesitantly, I hold up my hands, palms upward. The horn descends again.

This time the power crackles instead of warms, wreathing around my hands and fingers, sinking into my flesh and bones. Wonderingly, I turn my hands over, looking for changes, but can see nothing. They're the same as ever. But nothing at all the same.

The unicorn whuffs, gaining back my attention. With a great, graceful movement, she lies down, legs folding, and her broad white back gleams before me.

She nods at me, tossing her head invitingly back. _Come on then._

I do not hesitate.

Drawing up my ruined skirt, I slide a leg over the unicorn's back. I cling on, bracing my hands against her neck, as she stands, with me mounted. She pauses only an instant before starting forward.

There's no saddle, no reins. But I'm no danger of falling off. For the first time in ten years, I'm in no danger at all.

Behind us, I can hear the sounds of the ball once again, breaking the enchanted silence. I don't look back. There's nothing for me there now.

The walk becomes a trot, then a canter. We slip, silent and unseen, out of the royal gardens and into the woods. The trees make way for the unicorn, branches lifting out of our path, roots seeming to slide away. The unicorn moves like a wind, like a current. Without a sound, we ghost through the woods, the shadows clinging to us, hiding our passage. The unicorn hastens, and the wind flows through my hair. Swift as flight, silent as the stars, we gallop through the trees, and then emerge onto the sea cliffs, where the ocean hurls itself in lacy waves against the rocks, so far below.

Still the unicorn does not slow down. We keep going, to the very edge of the cliff, and then the unicorn leaps off.

I've ridden ragwort steeds that gallop through the air, transporting me across worlds. But the unicorn doesn't run through the sky. Instead, light as thistledown, we drift downward, to the restless surface of the sea.

The wind blows salt into my face. The unicorn runs forward, each hoofbeat a splash on the ocean's surface. Above us, the moon burns. Behind us, King Eldred's island disappears. And still the unicorn gallops on, along the silver road of the sea.

Eventually, a dark mass hulks before us, blocking the stars. The mainland. The unicorn runs steadily forward, and overleaps the combers that roil on the wide beach. Her hooves land in soft sand, but she leaves no prints as she gallops onward, up the beach and into the forests of Faerie.

Not once do I look back.

The unicorn runs all night, tireless and smooth, but eventually the sun begins to rise, lighting the forest by degrees around us, and she slows, coming to a halt by a fallen tree.

Here she indicates that I dismount, and I do, swinging my leg off and clambering onto the log. For the first time, fear tightens my heart—is she going to leave me here?—but she points with her horn to a space beneath the log. _Hide there. You will be safe. _She looks into my eyes. _I will return tonight._

I swallow a little, and nod. Briefly, we touch our foreheads together, sealing the covenant. Then I watch as she fades away, wearing to a shadow, then a wisp, then nothing, in the brightening sunlight.

I clamber off the log and slide into the space beneath. It's surprisingly roomy, and there are only a few harmless insects. Briefly, I wonder about breakfast, but I'm not hungry. I feel like I'll never be hungry again. I close my eyes, and in seconds I'm asleep.

I wake to the baying of hounds.

I startle awake, a soundless cry rising to my lips, at the infernal barking of fey hounds. I shrink, curling up in my hiding place, as they come closer. Unicorns are supposed to be impossible to track—but the unicorn isn't here. My mouth goes dry as my heart thunders and the sounds of the hunt come ever closer.

Now there is the thunder of hooves: not the unicorn's hooves, but those of ordinary horses. And _voices._

"Have you found any trace?" It's Madoc's voice, sharp and angry. I curl up even tighter, holding my breath.

"Nothing, my lord," says another voice, one I recognize as Foxfire, commander of his knights. I relax only a little; they're right beside my log. If they decide to look under it, will even the unicorn's magic keep me hidden?

"She can't have gotten far." There's the sound of leather as Madoc slaps a glove impatiently against his open palm. "Damn it, not even the hounds have picked up a scent!"

"My lord," Foxfire says hesitantly, "what if she went Ironside?"

"On her own?" Madoc laughs harshly. "Hardly. But if she had help, we'll soon know."

"Or one of your enemies—"

"Then we'll know even sooner," he says with quiet menace. "And their heads will rot from my rooftops if I find that any of them have taken her. Come, let's keep looking."

I keep absolutely still as they thunder away, and the sounds of the hunt grow dim. Only when they've faded away altogether and the birds tentatively start singing again do I relax, falling back into sleep.

Nightfall, and the silent, speaking presence of the unicorn draws me out of sleep.

I crawl out from under the log, smiling to see her standing in the forest glade, as beautiful and powerful as I remember. _Hello_, I start to say, but of course I can't. Instead, we touch foreheads again in greeting. Climbing onto the log, I mount once more.

We don't wait for anything, not even food or drink, but I am neither hungry nor thirsty. I feel like I could ride forever as we dash onward, pushing deeper into Faerie, the night a streaming whirlwind around us.

Dawn comes, and the unicorn drops me off at the mouth of a cave, high in a range of mountains. We have traveled a stupendous distance, much further than a normal faerie horse could go in a single night. But where's the surprise in that?

I sleep in the cave, and the next evening I wake to the unicorn's arrival. We travel on.

Every night it is the same. I awake from a dreamless sleep to touch foreheads with the unicorn, mount her back, and we gallop off. The unicorn overleaps rivers, canters across lakes, weaves among trees. We even go underground, crossing the mountains through the dwarven tunnels, the unicorn's glow lighting the darkness, but we meet no dwarf, no faerie of any kind, at any point in our journey. Only animals see us, white deer with golden antlers looking up at our passage, the gleaming eyes of lions, salmon gaping at us from rivers.

I eat nothing, drink nothing. I don't need to eat or drink. By day, my sleep is deeper than the ocean, and dreamless as death.

Across grassy plains we gallop, through forests, our way lit by the moon and stars and the unicorn's own light. Overhead, the lunar sphere wanes, curved slices shaved off night by night. That's my only clock, the only indication that time is passing. But even so, I can't keep track. Time and distance mean nothing in the presence of the unicorn.

We go on, and on. The journey may never end.

Until, one half-moon night, it does.

I'm surprised when the unicorn slows down; it's nowhere near dawn, and she's never faltered before. But slow down she does, deep in a forest of huge, ancient trees.

I look around curiously. The trees here are truly vast, blocking out the faint light of the moon and stars. At first I can't see anything else special about this forest. But then I spot a faint, wavering light, shining through a tangle of briars that—I squint—surround and overwhelm the base of an enormous old tree.

Then I hear noises: the fretful sounds of a baby squalling, and a faerie woman's voice, trying to soothe it.

The unicorn slows to a halt. She tosses her head. _Time to dismount._

Reluctantly, I swing over my leg and slide off. Tears prick my eyes as I turn to face the unicorn for what I know will be the final time. She rescued me, helped me escape; now it's time for us to part. This is fair, but still my heart is heavy at this farewell.

The unicorn lowers her head, and we touch foreheads one last time. We exchange one wordless, speaking glance. Then the unicorn gestures at the tree surrounded by briars, through which the lamplight gleams and the infant's cries sound. _Go on._

I nod, and, stepping back, give my deepest curtsy to the unicorn, head bowed.

She lowers her head, horn arcing lethally down in her own bow. Then, slowly, she turns away.

I watch, tears blurring my eyes, as she trots away, disappearing into the forests of Faerie. I watch and watch, until she's utterly gone and I'm left alone.

Slowly, I turn back to the faerie's house. I hesitate; but the unicorn did say I should seek entrance. And, now that she's gone, I'm vulnerable once more. The forests of Faerie are no place to be out alone at night in.

Warily, I approach. The baby's wails grow louder. There's no entrance through the briar-tangle—but then, in a rustle of leaves and a wash of rose-scent, the briars part before me, and I see a little round-topped door set in the trunk of the tree.

I knock, loudly and firmly, three times.

There's a pause in the baby's yelling, and I hear the mother's voice calling, surprised and frightened. "Who's there?"

I try to call out, but of course I can't. I can only knock once more.

There's the sound of shifting inside, and footsteps. Then the door opens, and I see a hob woman, small and brown, dressed in silk woven from bark and leaves, holding a screeching infant in the crook of her arms.

At once, I know exactly what to do.

I reach out. The hob woman yells and steps back, but I'm too quick for her, reaching into the doorway to lay my hands on the child.

Power charges from my hands through the sickly faerie infant in a flash of white light. For an instant, I have an insight into how the magic is working: how it is flowing through the tiny body, born weak and sickly as so many faeries are. It strengthens weak, failing organs, bolsters the system, blows on the baby's waning flame of life, until all weakness is gone and health spreads over the child like balm.

And the baby stops crying, blinking in pleasant surprise as his pain and weakness abate. He coos and wriggles in his mother's arms, already looking stronger, larger, healthier.

The hob gapes at her son. Then she gapes at me. I shrug, holding my hands out helplessly.

"Perhaps you'd better come in," she says faintly, and steps back to let me over the threshold into her house.


	4. Chapter 4: Weaver

**(Note: This chapter contains references to dirty diapers. I know what Holly Black said about faeries not ever needing to use the bathroom, but I really don't see how they can be vertebrate mammals that have circulatory and respiratory systems, need to eat and drink every day, require sleep, reproduce sexually, can interbreed with humans, give birth to live young, experience menstrual cycles, have food allergies, can become intoxicated on alcohol, can be poisoned with natural chemicals, leave a body that rots after death, and **_**not **_**need to process bodily wastes on a daily basis. It's just biology, folks.)**

Weaver

Inside, the walls of the cottage are polished smooth, and are lined with hundreds of shelves, extending from the floor up into the darkness of the hollow tree trunk. They're crowded with berries and nuts, baskets and books, spools of thread and yarn, and length upon length of woven fabric. A skilled wood-singer has been at work here: not only are there shelves, but a wide bed, formed from the living wood, extrudes smoothly from the opposite wall, hidden by a blue curtain. Off to the side, a loom sprawls. In addition to the softly glowing lamps, there's a fire, and a few candles providing light. Still, the light doesn't extend very far up the tree. High above our heads, in the darkness, I hear a few gentle clicks and scurries: the weaver's spinners must live up there, tending their silken webs.

The weaver—that's what she must be—fusses around, placing the baby gently in a cradle made from a magically worked nutshell and straightening with a groan of relief. Seen closer, she does not look well: her eyes are hollow from too many sleepless nights, and her bark-skin is cracked in places. Clearly, this baby has not been easy.

"He's asleep," she says quietly, with infinite relief. "Oh, thank the Trees, he's asleep at last." She looks at me more closely. "Who are you, my dear? And what brings you to Thistleweft's door?"

Politely, I curtsy. _Taryn_, I try to say, but nothing comes out. Helplessly, I mouth, and lay a hand at my throat.

"Voiceless, eh? Here." The hob woman—Thistleweft?—takes down a sheet of lined paper and a pencil, obviously stolen from the human world, and hands them to me.

There's no table, but a wide shelf beside the fireplace acts as a counter, scattered with cooking equipment. Moving aside a knife, I write on the paper, _The unicorn brought me here. I'm sorry if I disturbed you._

She reads it, and her pure-black eyes go wide. "The unicorn?" She gapes at me. Then, to my surprise, her eyes fill with tears. "Oh, you poor soul."

I blink. I expected surprise, disbelief, maybe even fear, but not this: a deep welling of horror and sympathy. I cock my head inquiringly.

She sighs, shaking her head. "The unicorn's a pure and benevolent thing," she says heavily, "but she only manifests to women who have suffered. _Really _suffered. Experienced true injustice, so badly that Faerie itself owes them a debt. For her to have _carried _you here…" She looks at me with a fascinated horror. "What _happened_ to you?"

I can't tell her. It's not that I don't want to—part of me is screaming to say it, scrawl the truth across the paper, shout it from the forest canopy—but I literally can't do it. I can't even open my mouth to fruitlessly try to explain. I can't gesture. I can't write. I can't move at all, just stand rigidly and stare at her, unable to so much as shake my head.

And I realize that Balekin's second curse has come true.

The room is blurring before my eyes. I can't stop shaking. Murmuring soothingly, Thistleweft guides me to a bench, another wide shelf extruding from the wall, sitting me down. I can't acknowledge her. All I can do is shake, and shed silent tears. Balekin raped me—and he's made sure I can't ever reveal what he did. The unicorn might have spirited me away, but I'm as helpless as I ever was, and with sullied honor and a defiled body besides. I squeeze my eyes shut.

"Here, dear." Thistleweft presses something warm into my hands. "You don't have to discuss it. Drink this."

Blindly, I drink. It's some kind of herbal tea, spicy and with a hint of earth. It's good. I drain it down; it's the first thing I've drunk since _that _night, so many nights ago.

"In any case," Thistleweft says, glancing back at her peacefully slumbering baby, "I shouldn't be pestering you. I do believe you've saved my son's life. And probably mine as well," she adds wryly. She takes the empty mug away and sits down on the bed beside me. Her shoulders slump. "He was born two months ago." Her voice is so thin, so weary. "First child I ever bore. But he was so weak, like so many faerie babies…I didn't think he'd live even so long as he has." She looks up at me with wonder. "And then you appear, and just lay your hands—and he's better." She shakes her head wonderingly. "It must be meant to be."

Even in my quagmire of building misery, I have to smile a little. _I'm glad to have saved your son, _I write, bracing the paper against the wall. _What's his name?_

"Dogwood. His father was a tree goblin." Thistleweft gestures up the tree. "There's a whole tribe of them, lives about a mile east of here. My escape hatch leads right to the village."

_Escape hatch? _Anything, to keep my mind off the enveloping darkness.

She points upward. "I've got a ladder that lets out onto a treeway, high above ground level. The treeway runs to the village." She shrugs. "You need an escape exit, living around here. Even living in a Great Tree isn't a guarantee of safety."

Great Tree? I look around with surprise and awe. This is a Great Tree of Faerie? One of the pillars that upholds this reality, great with a deep and sacred power. I shift a little on the bench: a piece of the Tree.

"Yes." Thistleweft smiles slightly, seeing my expression. "This is a Great Tree. Some very powerful wood singer sang it into a cottage, a long time ago." She pats the wood fondly. "I think this Tree likes to have people living inside it. I've been happy here, even alone."

I cock my head at her inquiringly.

"I've been alone here for centuries," she says simply. "The villagers are my allies, though." With a grunt, she stands up, placing the mug on the counter and twitching her red shawl closer. "They like my fabric, but I'm not a goblin. Not really one of them."

Don't I know what _that's _like. _I'm sorry_, I write.

She waves a long, gnarled hand. "Nothing to feel sorry for," she says. "I like it here, on my own." Her gaze softens on Dogwood. "Until my son, of course. Whose life you have saved."

Her glowing look makes me uncomfortable. I shrug awkwardly. _I don't really know what I did. _

"I do," she says, confidently and unexpectedly. "It must be a gift from the unicorn. She gave you the ability to heal by laying on your hands."

And, of course, the moment she says so, it's obvious. I remember holding up my hands, the unicorn tapping her horn against them: the sense of power wreathing around my fingers, sinking into my bones. I look down at my hands wonderingly. What a gift! Then I feel a tremor: faerie gifts are seldom free. What price will I have to pay for this?

Then I remember: I've already paid. I shove my hands between my knees, locking them out of sight.

"Remarkable," Thistleweft is saying. There's a flicker in her eyes: I can see she's burning to ask exactly what happened to make the unicorn owe me so much. But she suppresses the urge. "Do you have anywhere to stay, my dear?"

I shake my head and eye her sidelong, half wary, half hopeful.

"Well, then." She straightens and stands stiffly up, turning to face me. "I think Fate has brought us together for a reason, girl-who-was-brought-by-the-unicorn. You are welcome to stay with me as long as you like." She correctly interprets my wary silence. "I swear I will not try to enspell or enslave you. Though you do have to help out—you're not a High Court lady out here. We both have to work."

I nod; this is more than reasonable. Though I have to ask: _How did you know I was a High Court lady?_

"Your clothes, and your manners." She shrugs. "And most mortals in Faerie belong to a Court. Especially the High Court."

I nod. This is true: only aristocrats have the privilege of stealing humans away from Earth, whether to marry them or make them servants. Common faeries, like this hob, don't have that right. It's therefore highly unusual to meet a mortal outside a Court; and by far the largest concentration can be found at Eldred's High Court.

"Like I said, though, you can stay with me," Thistleweft says. "I promise I won't make you a slave, but you will have to work. I don't have servants."

I know why she's hammering it home so hard: the idea of _having to work _would be utterly incomprehensible to most High Court gentry. The thought's amusing, in a sour sort of way. A smile tugs at my lips and I nod.

She relaxes. "Good. In exchange, I'll give you houseroom, and share my supplies with you, and give you what protection I can. Is that bargain good to you?"

I nod. Standing up, I curtsy, one hand over my heart. It is sworn.

Clumsily, she curtsies in response, and nearly overbalances. I stiffen a little, but she's smiling as she comes up, so I smile too. "Like I said," she says. "Lovely manners. What do I call you, dear, if we're going to be living together?"

I think for a moment. I could tell her my name—I doubt it would mean anything to her—but if Madoc or…others…are hunting me, I don't want to make it too easy for them.

And besides, I realize, I don't _want_ my old name. I want a new name. A new life.

I think of the roses outside. I recall lessons given by Oriana, in the language of flowers. White roses symbolize silence, and that certainly describes me.

_Albia, _I write at last. I think that will do: an elegant word for "white", and utterly unlike my old name. A new name for new beginnings. A white rose, as silent as myself.

"Albia," Thistleweft says, and so it is agreed.

Thistleweft checks on Dogwood—still sleeping soundly—before pulling back the covers on the bed. "You'll have to sleep with me," she says, almost to herself. "There's nowhere else."

I nod. Turning my back, I take off my ruined ballgown and most of my underclothes, until I'm down to just my petticoat. The clothes I shove onto a shelf; I really don't care if they're wrinkled. I also take off my jewels: by some miracle, I haven't lost a single one on my journey, not even the earrings.

It's strange to slide into bed next to a stranger. One more thing to get used to, I suppose. After the bare beds of my journey, though, the ferny mattress feels decadently comfortable.

Thistleweft has touched every lamp, making them die down, leaving only the fire. In the darkness, she sniffs. "First thing in the morning, Albia," she says, "you need a bath."

This makes me giggle. Silently, of course.

In the morning, I make breakfast, taking instruction from Thistleweft while she nurses Dogwood. He suckles vigorously, with loud wet noises and waves of his hands and feet. "He's never nursed so strongly before!" Thistleweft exclaims in pleasure. "And he slept the night through as well. Never done that before." She looks at me with even more approval. "I do believe you've saved my life as well as Dogwood's, Albia. Even if you can't cook."

I shrug and give a grimacing smile as I stir the oats. I catch sight of myself in the mirror over the fireplace and blink in surprise: Thistleweft was right about me needing a wash. My face is smudged with dirt and my hair is matted with tangles. I touch it gingerly and sigh: I think most of it is going to have to go.

"First thing after breakfast, you take a wash," Thistleweft says, picking up on my silent observations. "I'll show you how to use the shower. We'll do something about your hair, too."

I wonder what she means by "shower" as we start to eat breakfast, sitting on the floor. I know human showers, but I don't think that's what she means.

It turns out that Thistleweft collects rainwater in a vat, high in the Tree, and has rigged a complex contraption that, with a tug of the rope, will bring a cascade down onto a wooden platform, with grooves to let the water sluice away onto the Tree's roots. "There's a lake down in the valley, and a river running into the lake," she says, "but of course it's not safe to bathe there. Here, hold Dogwood while I get it set up."

I take Dogwood while she busies herself about the machinery. I cuddle him close: he's a sweet little thing, covered in light brown fuzz. He kicks and coos at me. I try to hum him a song—but nothing happens. My vocal cords won't move.

And suddenly, without warning, I'm blinded by rage.

That Balekin has cursed me so! That he has willed it so I can't even hum a damn lullaby to a baby! Unfair, unfair: evil and wrong and unfair. I look away, shaking, fighting back tears.

"—There we go; should be all set up." Thistleweft bustles back around and stops short. "Albia? What's the matter?"

I shake my head, cradling Dogwood awkwardly to wipe at my eyes. He cries out in protest at the change in position.

Thistleweft takes him back and stares at me a moment with her ink drop eyes. My heart thuds. She suspects what's happened. Of course she does.

For a moment, I'm certain she's going to confront me with it, but she just says, "I'll let you get cleaned up."

I watch her go and look around. The rope dangles, ready to be pulled. Around me, the forest spreads out. Craning, I can spot a gap in the branches, where I can see the deep blue of a wide calm lake and, beyond that, a range of snowcapped mountains. It's quiet, except for the morning chirp of birds, and the buzzing progress of a few flower-fey who don't even glance in my direction.

I wrap my arms around myself. I didn't put my ballgown back on this morning; I'm still in my petticoat. So I'm half-naked anyway, but I find I can't bring myself to strip off this layer of fabric, even alone.

What's wrong with me? Part of it is that I've never bathed out the open before. But there's something more: an inchoate, panicky reluctance.

_—Balekin's weight on me, pulling up my skirt—_

I gasp, and my knees buckle. I steady myself against the Tree, bark warm under my hand. I squeeze my eyes shut, willing my heart to stop pounding. I'm here, not there. Balekin is nowhere near here. But I can still feel his hands on me, his body. Being pounded back against the earth, bruised and smacked. The tearing inside.

_He's not here, he's not here, he's not here!_

I open my eyes and take a deep breath. Whatever my feelings, I have to shower; I can't stay this dirty forever. Moving as fast as I can, I pull off my petticoat and remove my underwear. The air touches certain parts of me, and I gag, but I don't let myself stop. Yanking on the rope, I let down a cascade of cold water on my head, and scrub myself with the bar of soap in the little wooden box attached to the Tree.

I wash as quickly as I can before hastily toweling off and darting to put my clothes back on. Dressed, I feel a little better, but still have to breathe deeply a moment, head spinning, before going back to find Thistleweft.

She's sitting on a sort of bench carved out from one of the great exposed roots of the Tree, shelling nuts, Dogwood at her side. She looks up as I come around. "All done?"

I nod before touching my hair, grimacing. She nods understanding. "Yes, I agree, your hair's beyond salvation. Here, sit down. I'll give you a haircut."

I sit on the bench and hold Dogwood in my lap while she bustles about getting scissors. I smile down at the half-goblin child: he is a sweet thing, and a bit of a distraction from the growing darkness of my thoughts, the creeping horror. Not enough, though.

Why am I remembering Balekin now? I wonder while Thistleweft cuts my hair. I hardly gave him a thought while I was with the unicorn. But the moment I ask myself the question, I know the answer.

The unicorn's mode was one of peace, detachment, serenity. While I was wrapped in her aura, all my emotions were placed at a distance, even my curiosity and confusion transmuted into an unquestioning wonder. Memories were dim and feeble; neither pain nor passion existed. But now that I'm away from the unicorn, just as my physical needs are reviving, so my emotions are coming back to the surface. And they're bringing my memories with them.

I shut my eyes. I don't want to remember. But I have no choice: in the darkness behind my closed lids, I see Balekin's face again, his bestial excitement. Those hands, clawing at me. The weight of him. And, most of all, the ruthless, brutal thrusting.

And then he just left, back to the party, without a backward glance.

That alone tells me everything. I was less to him than I was to the Court of Grackles. To them, at least, I was a _person_, with thoughts they could damage and feelings they could hurt. But to Balekin I was just something he could _use_. And then discard, like a filthy old rag.

In my lap, Dogwood squeaks, and I force my eyes open. I'm here now: far away from Balekin. _Focus. _I bounce Dogwood on my knee, which he seems to enjoy. I get a whiff though; I think he needs a diaper change.

"All done," says Thistleweft finally. I toss my head; it feels very light and strange without my mane of long hair. I wonder reflexively how I look, before realizing that I don't really care. The thought, oddly, makes me feel better: it's strangely liberating.

Thistleweft takes her son with a wrinkled nose, and we change him before washing my shorn hair in a bowl of water. The wastewater is brown and scummy when we throw it away.

"Now: clothes," says Thistleweft, ushering me back inside. I'm carrying Dogwood again, all clean now. "Your gown's lovely, but not practical." She takes it off the shelf, shaking it out doubtfully. "Though I suppose we could remake it—"

_No!_ I shake my head firmly, holding Dogwood to my chest.

She frowns at me. "Sell it, then?"

I shake my head again, even more emphatically. I don't want it sold, where Madoc or any other pursuer may find it. In fact, now that it's off my body, I can't look at it without a shudder. That's the gown that Balekin touched, the gown I wore to my doom. I don't want it to exist at all.

Holding Dogwood to my shoulder, I snatch up a knife from the counter and make a slashing motion. Thistleweft's eyes widen. "Tear it up?"

I nod vigorously.

"But Albia, this is beautiful fabric. We could sell it, or use it to make something wonderful—"

I shake my head and stamp my foot, making Dogwood cry out. I put the knife down to soothe him, jiggling him on my shoulder.

"Well, all right." I can tell Thistleweft thinks I'm being unreasonable, but she lowers the gown. "We'll feed it to the spinners," she decides. "They can reuse the silk."

Together, we cut up the gown and pass up scraps of silk to the vast spiders that clamber down to suck them through their mandibles.

Thistleweft makes a new suit of clothes for me, pulling down swathes of green and brown fabric and muttering spells over her snapping scissors and flashing needle. The sewing is done at supernatural speed while I look after Dogwood. He seems to like me, and there's no point thinking a human can help out with faerie sewing.

When Thistleweft is done, I have a loose shirt under a tight bodice, and practical, calf-length pants over moccasin-like shoes. It's strange to wear pants, but I can see its uses out here in the forest. I give her a curtsy in thanks, and we laugh at how odd the gesture is without skirts.

My petticoats we feed to the spiders too.

Another day, I think as we go to bed. I've gotten through another day.

I keep getting through the days, one at a time. Thistleweft is extraordinarily kind and patient, showing me how to do things around the house. "Though you certainly have a gift for looking after Dogwood," she says, seeing me jiggling him while he coos. "Quite a help, that."

_I've always liked babies, _I write on the paper, which is getting crowded.

She shakes her head at the lined paper. "We need to figure something else out, Albia. All this writing stuff down is getting ridiculous."

Slowly, she introduces me to the local faeries. Thistleweft is respected for her skill in weaving and sewing, so it gives me some status too, when she introduces me as Dogwood's new nurse. I'm a bit cautious about being introduced as a servant, but I have to admit that it might be better to have an official status, especially when we meet the Jenny Greenteeth down by the lake, slithering out the water, leering at me. I jump back when one lays a clawed hand on my leg, making Dogwood cry out. She cackles at me slimily.

"Back off," Thistleweft warns. "Albia's my friend. And you don't want her disfavor."

"Why not?" demands the Greenteeth, still laughing. "She's mortal. She's nothing."

I turn away, unable to deny this. I don't even have the power to keep Balekin out of my nightmares.

My meeting with the goblin tribe is even more unnerving, in its way.

Treeways, as it turns out, are a large, complex network of bridges and roads built into the canopy, constructed of twisting, woven branches and vines. They're narrow, with barely room for two average-sized faeries to walk side by side, and they are punctuated by drawbridges: gaps over space where the pedestrian has to place their hand on a knot of wood to make the bridge appear, vines spiraling and weaving out to close the gap. "The tribe has to give you permission first for that to work," Thistleweft explains. "They own and maintain the treeways." She laughs a little. "It's worth it to stay in the goblins' favor, just to use these paths. They're much safer than moving at ground level. Out of the reach of predators. And those Unseelie swine." She scowls.

I make a note to ask her about this as soon as we get hold of some paper, as we enter the goblin village. It's built in the treetops, of course: platforms and treehouses, built on multiple levels in the branches and around the trunks. The goblins race up the sides of their own houses, along suspension bridges, and scrabbling along vines and branches, their tails whipping back and forth to maintain balance, claws hooking into the bark. The goblins are all about my height, covered with brown fur, each with a prehensile tail and a crest of stiff, spiky hairs on their heads that flash colors. I freeze, half entranced and half intimidated by the scene.

Thistleweft has no such reservations. "Oi, Birch, move it!" she says crossly, pushing aside a goblin in a red vest. "We need to see Heartwood."

The male goblin, holding a piece of magic-worked wood, blinks at me. "Who's this?" His voice is surprisingly deep and pleasant.

"Albia, my son's nurse and my friend," Thistleweft says tartly, sweeping past him. "So mind your manners."

"Never would have thought you'd get a nurse for the boy," he says. His crest, tipped with red and spotted with iridescent blue, rises a little, inquiringly. "Snatch her from the human world, did you? You know, you can get into trouble for that." He peers at Dogwood. "He's looking very well now, isn't he?"

"Yes, he is," says Thistleweft grudgingly. "Move aside, Birch!" Birch gives a bow and watches as we go by. "That Birch!" Thistleweft mutters. "Thinks everything's his business."

He seemed all right to me, but I can hardly argue as we thread our way through the goblin village. It's even noisier and busier in its center, with goblins screeching and shouting and racing like squirrels, coming over to gape at us—and, more specifically, me. I catch snatches of conversation: "That's her…The human Thistleweft hired…Heard she did something to save Dogwood…Is it true she's from the High Court?"

I hunch over the sling where I carry Dogwood on my chest. I hate the attention being beamed on me, like hands touching.

We finally achieve the central tree deck: a wide open platform with a strange feature in the middle: a great, bulbous, ugly knot of twisted branches and wood, protruding up through a hole in the deck. I can't help staring at it as I follow Thistleweft to where a goblin woman sits, strung with beads, clothing a patchwork of fabric and styles, smoking a pipe and raising her face to the sun.

"Chieftainess Heartwood," Thistleweft says, bowing. "I would like to make an introduction. This is Albia, my son's nurse and my companion."

I give my own bow as Heartwood peers through a curtain of smoke at me. Her furry face is calm, her red eyes fathoms deep. As a female, her crest is smaller than the males', and without their blue spots, but all the same she has great presence.

"Albia?" she says. Nervously, I nod. "Well, come here, child."

I step closer, trying not to show my nerves. In his sling, Dogwood begins fussing; he's hungry. Gesturing apologetically, I hand him over to Thistleweft, who begins nursing him, quite unembarrassed about doing so under the gaze of the curious goblin tribe.

"I've heard stories, young Albia, since you arrived here," Heartwood says abruptly. "You're not just this boy's nurse, are you? Did you truly save his life by laying on your hands?"

My palms sweat. I can't see any way out of this. Reluctantly, I nod. Behind me, Thistleweft shifts uneasily.

"Hmm." Heartwood regards me intently a moment more. "Let's experiment." Moving stiffly, she extends a gnarled, twisted old foot. "I've had trouble with this foot since I was young and an Unseelie knight decided to play with me." Her voice is matter-of-fact, with no hint of bitterness. "Could you do something about it?"

Can I do something about it? I have no choice. My hands leap forward, wrap around the foot. The unicorn's power flares, and I feel, fleetingly, the magic writhing in, correcting the crushed and twisted bones, the flesh and blood vessels that have rerouted themselves around the mishmash of breaks. A flash of light, and it's done: Heartwood's foot is whole, smooth and untwisted.

The tribe lets out a gasp, and a frenzy of whispers and speculation arises. Heartwood flexes her foot in satisfaction, seeming completely unsurprised. "Well, well," she says, "it seems the unicorn did bless you." At my startled look, she smiles. "I'm old, child. This isn't the first time I've encountered the unicorn's power."

The goblins gibber even more. Off to the side, I see Birch staring, red eyes round. I sigh. This story is going to spread. So much for obscurity. Nervously, I hope this rumor doesn't fly too far or too fast.

"Well, Albia," Heartwood says, sounding pleased, "I do believe you are welcome here." She rests her weight on her formerly bad foot and lets out a pleased gasp at standing without pain. "Oh, that's better!" She beckons me. "Come, Albia."

After a nervous look at Thistleweft, who nods encouragingly, I follow Heartwood across the platform to the great, hideous mass of branches. Up close, it's even uglier, but more fascinating: the ropes of living tree tie around one another in a fabulously complicated puzzle, stained with lichen and strung with spiderwebs. There's also a strange, dark stain covering it.

"This is the Knot," says Heartwood. "It is the center of power for the Red Branch tribe of tree goblins, and the means by which we maintain our covenant with the trees." She turns to me. "The covenant is this: that any Red Branch goblin, or those who we permit, are safe from most predators and other faeries as long as we are in or touching one of the trees. The trees also provide us with food, shelter and materials.

"There is of course a price for this." She shrugs. "We must feed the trees our blood, at least once a year." She points, and I see the stain is old, dried blood. "If you enter the covenant, Albia, you too must feed the trees. Will you do so?"

An awestruck murmur runs through the crowd: "Covenant…a _mortal_?...But we don't even know her…"

I do not turn to look at the tribe. I know what this is: a chance at protection, and also a test. I nod, placing my right hand over my heart.

"Very well." Heartwood looks at Thistleweft. "Will you vouch for her, Thistleweft?"

"Yes, Chieftainess." Thistleweft nods. "She is a good and helpful girl, and will bring no harm to the tribe. Indeed, I think she will bring much good."

"I think so too." Heartwood turns to me, drawing a small copper knife from her belt. "In exchange for healing my leg, Albia, I grant you the protection of our tribe, and the covenant of the trees. Hold out your arm."

A little hesitantly, I do so, and she draws the knife shallowly across it. Blood trickles down my arm and onto the Knot.

A cheer rises, and Heartwood smiles. "There. You are now under our protection, and that of the trees. The trees will feed you, and as long as you are touching one, you will be safe from enemies."

I can't stop myself smiling. Maybe she's only doing it in return for healing her leg, and because I look like I'll be a useful addition to the tribe—but I am now protected. And, what is more—I'm in the _community._ Like Thistleweft, I may not be one of them, but at least I have some sort of place now.

My cut is still bleeding. Raising my other hand, I try to summon the unicorn's power to heal myself, but, though the white glow appears and the power crackles, my cut won't heal.

"What's the matter, Albia?" Thistleweft comes up, through the chattering crowd.

Frowning, I show her how the gift isn't working on me. Heartwood, still standing close, leans in interestedly. "Looks like the unicorn's gift works on others, but not you," she observes. She turns. "Oi! Alder! Elder!"

"Here!" Two younger goblins swing through the branches, landing lightly before their Chieftainess.

"A pair of idiots like you must have some injuries," Heartwood says in a calm, observational tone. "Have our new Lady Healer heal one."

The two goblins fall about laughing. They must be identical twins, like me and Jude: I can't tell them apart.

"Okay, okay," giggles one, and shows me a small bruise on his arm.

With some trepidation—what if the power isn't working at all anymore?—I lay on my hands, and it heals instantly. I breathe out a sigh of relief. Heartwood must be right: the unicorn's gift works on others, but not me. That's a bit disappointing, but better than it suddenly vanishing.

"All right!" cheers the goblin twin. I curtsy and smile.

Heartwood looks at me closely. "Can't you speak at all, child?"

I shake my head, tears stinging my eyes. Thistleweft speaks up. "I think it's a curse, Heartwood." I look at her in surprise, and she shrugs. "What else could it be?"

"Ah." Heartwood looks at me sidelong. "Like that, eh?" She turns back to the goblin twins. "You like stealing things from Ironside, don't you? And you owe the Lady Healer now. So, next time you're out shopping, get Albia here a book on sign language. Humans have that sort of thing, I understand." She pauses thoughtfully. "Get me a copy too, while you're at it. And some salt."

"Salt!" They draw back, making disgusted faces.

"Mortals need it just to stay alive," Heartwood says. "Our new healer needs it."

Behind me, Thistleweft sucks in her breath, dismayed. But what can we do? The goblins are already chattering and exclaiming enthusiastically, and starting to push forward their injuries and small, squalling babies. "Please…Touch my daughter!...I've got a cut…See this?"

"You can touch me anytime, lovely," leers a male, only to be cuffed back by his tribemates. I shudder away, hoping no one notices the flash of disgust.

_—Balekin's fingers, digging into my breasts, my hair being dragged back through the mud as I'm raked brutally back and forth across the ground—_

"Respect!" barks Heartwood, who is watching me keenly. "Albia, would you be willing to share your gift more today?" she asks me formally.

_Focus._ I take a breath, then another. My secret's out, and I can't afford to alienate this tribe, especially since they seem to be a major power in this valley. Drawing myself up, I nod.

After that, it's surprisingly orderly. The goblins who need my help line up, and I touch each one. My gift flares in white light, and my patients go away on healed limbs or with strengthened babies, each promising me something in exchange later. It's very satisfying to see their wounds heal, and with so little effort, and to know that I have a string of gifts and favors coming my way. When I straighten at last, it's with a smile of pleasure.

"Very good!" says Heartwood approvingly. "Albia, Thistleweft, will you not stay the night?"

"No," says Thistleweft abruptly. She stands. "We must be getting back to the Tree. Here, Albia, take Dogwood." I place Dogwood back in his sling and make one last bob to Heartwood.

"Goodbye, Lady Healer!" The goblins all wave, and I wave back, smiling.

Thistleweft isn't pleased, though, as we move along the treeway back to the house. "Dammit," she mutters. "That Heartwood. She always knows everything ahead of time. I was hoping we could keep that gift of yours a secret, Albia. Now the whole valley's going to know!"

I wonder why she's so upset. Is she jealous of the attention, of my gift? Or just possessive? She _has _seemed to be enjoying my company. Maybe she doesn't want to share. Or she thinks I'm getting above myself. Or that it's going to attract unwanted attention.

Well, it's too late now, I think as we descend the ladder back into the house, past the level of the spiders. The goblins know. And I healed dozens of them today. I should probably be nervous about this—miraculous healing isn't conducive to hiding for one's life—but instead I feel a strange glow: _I_ healed them.

I made a difference today, all on my own.

I go to bed happy, and I'm completely unprepared for the nightmares.

Hands, crawling all over me, rough and ruthless. Balekin's voice, whispering my old name. The awful weight on me, the earth all around me, and then I'm sinking, sinking, suffocating under layers of earth and stone, and Balekin's hands won't stop—

I wake with a silent scream ripping my throat. I scream and scream, bolt upright in the bed, while Thistleweft sleeps beside me and Dogwood snuffles in his cradle. Silently, I shriek in the darkness of the treehouse, and it's a long time before I can make myself stop, drawing in breath after sobbing breath.

I curl up, huddling around myself in the darkness. _Focus. Breathe._ I'm here, not there. Balekin is far away.

So how can I still feel him?

I lie back with a silent moan. I hate this so much. I hate Balekin, and I hate myself. I should have known better than to let him get me alone that night. Jude would have known better. Jude would have kept herself safe. But not me. Why was I so stupid? Why am I always so stupid?

But really, how was I to know he would assault me? Why would I suspect he would do such a thing? Oriana was right: he's a prince. If he'd asked for me, I couldn't have refused. Even Madoc wouldn't have dreamed of saying no. He could have used me for as long as he liked, free of consequences. He had no _need _to rape me.

Then I remember his snarled command: _"Don't make a sound, Taryn. Don't ruin it." _And earlier: _"That silence…so intoxicating."_

Balekin didn't want even the _pretense_ of a consensual relationship. He wanted to hurt me. He _liked_ my silence, my self-annihilation. He wanted to force himself on me in every sense, to break my passive resistance, to dominate me completely. To break me.

Can it be? That the silence I undertook as self-protection…was my downfall?

Tears track across my face, slipping onto the pillow. Why am I always so dumb? Vivienne, Oriana, Jude and Madoc were all utterly correct in thinking me a complete weakling. Everyone was. Now I have to live with the consequences of that weakness forever. Silence excited Balekin's interest, led to my rape—and now I'm silent for the rest of my life. I couldn't tell my family a thing even if they were here. Balekin will never face any consequences for what he did.

My family. For the first time, guilt stabs me: I left without so much as a farewell note. They must still be frantic; I know Madoc at least was actively looking for me. But—selfishly, cowardly—I can't bear the thought of facing them again, any of them. Not with _that_ between me and them. Not at Court.

I take a deep breath and let it out again. Perhaps it's for the best. No doubt they're all upset, but maybe, when the fuss dies down, my sisters can get on with their lives, now that they don't have to look after me. Vivi can leave Faerie, as she's always wanted to do, and move in with that human lover of hers—what was her name? Heather, that's it. Vivi can go live with Heather. And Jude can concentrate on her studies and become a knight, according to her ambition. Oriana, too, will get on with her life, and I daresay Madoc will find something else to do. I don't doubt that they're afraid and unhappy about me right now—but they'll move on. They're the strong ones, after all.

Dogwood stirs and starts to cry. I get out of bed and pick him up, a warm, squirming bundle. He's hungry. As I hand him over to a sleepy Thistleweft, I feel just the slightest bit better.

I may be weak and broken, but here at least I can help.


	5. Chapter 5: Child

Child

Alder and Elder, the goblin twins, arrive with stolen goods, flipping like a pair of demented acrobats through the branches to rattle down to Thistleweft's front door.

"Oi!" shouts one. "We have salt."

"Tons and tons," agrees the other, shaking the round paper cannister like a rattle. He laughs and shakes it some more.

"Oh, and this too," says the first—Alder? He hands me a heavy book with a white cover. Awkwardly, I balance it in one hand while Dogwood stirs in my other arm, and look at the title: _The Big Book of American Sign Language._

"Got some good stuff in there!" Elder makes some strange hand signals, and they both collapse laughing.

"Right, boys," says Thistleweft, somewhat breathlessly, as she takes container after container of salt. "Tell Heartwood we got the goods."

"Will do!" Cackling, they zip back up the Tree and away.

"Those two…" Thistleweft shakes her head after them. She looks at one of the cans and frowns. "I wonder why that girl is spilling salt on the ground?"

I shrug. I'm already sinking to the ground, ready to flip through _The Big Book of American Sign Language._

Thistleweft goes to put the salt away before coming out and taking Dogwood. She crouches beside me as I look through the book. It's a sunny day, and Thistleweft's white roses are breathing a heady scent. "Looks like the twins were right for once," she says grudgingly. "That _will _be useful."

And it is. Over the next weeks, I study the book constantly, and practice whenever I can, making the gestures in front of the mirror and even in front of Dogwood, who chuckles and tries to catch my hands every time I sign at him. I try to communicate with Thistleweft, who studies the book almost as much as I do. "Very strange," she says musingly. "I wonder how many humans actually lose their voices?"

_You're being very patient, _I sign—only I'm still learning, so it's more like _You much patience._

"Ah, well," she shrugs. "It's good to learn something new. And honestly, Albia, you've been an absolute treasure with Dogwood. I'm actually getting some work done since you arrived. Not to mention some sleep."

She's certainly getting work done. Every day we follow the same routine. We wake to dress and eat breakfast, do chores and tend Dogwood. Then we head out into the forest, each day a different direction as Thistleweft seeks the colors and textures she wants. She takes skeins of unworked silk from the spinners and, wielding her spindle, sets off, striding rapidly through the woods or across the treetops. I follow, carrying Dogwood and the basket of food and baby supplies, until we reach a good place, which could, of course, be anywhere.

There she begins to work, siphoning the colors and textures of her surroundings onto the thread as it winds around the spindle. It's amazing: she can spin for hours, the thread slowly gaining greater substance and color and shade, until the skein is the color of a fresh new morning, or the sparkles of sunlight on the water, or the deep emerald shade beneath the canopy.

Thistleweft always admonishes me before she starts work. "Now don't wander, Albia," she says bossily as she sets up. "It may be daylight, but there are still predators aplenty. You don't want to run into the manticore."

I blink, and put down both Dogwood and the sign language book so I can sign. _There are manticores? _I have to spell the word "manticores" in the phonetic sign alphabet: the book doesn't include the word, and we haven't invented a sign for that yet, the way we have for "hob" or "spell" or "goblin".

"Well, there's at least one." Thistleweft twists silk onto her spindle, threading it expertly. "No one sees it that often, fortunately. But every time we think it might be gone, it reappears. And usually kills someone." She smiles grimly. "And sometimes people just disappear. And we always say it was the manticore. If it wasn't those Unseelie bastards…"

I glance around nervously, picking up Dogwood and edging closer to Thistleweft. But worse than fear of predators or violent Unseelie is the reminder of Balekin. Balekin, who longed to kill a manticore.

I do everything I can to avoid thinking about Balekin during our spinning expeditions. It's—relatively—easy back at the house, with dozens of chores to do. But out here, if Dogwood's being quiet, there's little to distract me. I count acorns on a tree; I keep watch for predators; I wind Thistleweft's skeins for her; and, of course, I play with Dogwood, who loves grabbing at my signing hands with his soft, white, flexible young claws. But Balekin is always there, a shadow in my mind. I wish I could just push him away—I hate that he has such power over me. But he does.

So I try thinking about other people. Whenever my conscious thoughts go to Balekin, I make myself think about my family instead. Generally, the rush of emotions invoked by these thoughts can at least partially distract me, angry colors against the eternal shadow that is Balekin.

I don't miss Madoc. Honestly, I half-expected to—but I don't. Instead, there's a huge sense of relief that I'm far away from him. I never knew what a hideous pressure—what an awful burden—living with him was. Not until that burden was taken away. Now, knowing that I don't have to live with my parents' murderer—don't even have to see him—and probably never will again!—is such sweet release. I feel like I can fly, every time I think of it.

Jude is more complicated. I miss her, but there's a shameful sense of relief about getting away from her, too. Jude was always so angry, and so judgmental. Talking to her sometimes was like getting a beating. It's a relief to escape from her constant rage and implicit criticism—not to mention the constant competition between us. No more being compared to her and found wanting. No more being the "weaker" sister, the one who needs to be protected—not that my family did anything to protect me when I actually needed it.

I close my eyes against the wave of bitterness this thought brings on. Oriana, my stepmother, who I loved and who loved me, offered me up to Balekin like a sweetmeat on a platter. I know she thought it was all for the best—that I would make my fortune as his mistress. There was no way she could know he would rape me. But I'm still so angry with her. And with Vivienne too, a little, for not noticing. For being so busy being self-righteously angry with Madoc and all faeries that she couldn't be bothered to see I was in trouble.

How is it possible to miss three people so much, and be so happy to be away from them?

Dogwood coos, and I open my eyes to play another signing game with him. After such dark, bitter thoughts, the sight of an innocent baby is sweet relief. Dogwood's such a good child, and I swear he recognizes me, smiling every time he sees me. He knows who saved him from illness and death. And he's still so relieved and delighted to be healthy, always laughing and kicking and looking at his new, pain-free world with bright, clear eyes. _Good boy_, I sign, and he laughs, grabbing at my fingers.

"Albia!" Thistleweft calls. "Come on, let's head home. You've probably got some patients waiting by now." Her mouth twists a little around this.

_Coming_, I say, and, scooping Dogwood into his sling, I tuck the book under my arm and follow Thistleweft back to the Tree.

There are faeries waiting for me: a little gaggle of wild fey nursing injuries, sitting around the clearing. At our approach, they all leap to their feet.

"Please, Lady Healer…See my leg…Can you do something for my arm, Unicorn-Blessed?" Thistleweft takes Dogwood and stomps off scowling as they surround me. I feel a moment's anxiety for her before being swamped in my patients' needs.

Healing their injuries is easy. Just a quick laying-on of my hands, a flash of white light, and their flesh and bones knit closed, free of infection or trauma or scarring. It gives me a flash of delight to see my power, to watch cuts and broken bones disappear as if they never were—and there's a smug satisfaction, too, at how the faeries fawn on me. _Please, Lady Healer. Please, Unicorn-Blessed. I need your help, sweet healer. _Who's a worthless, powerless, useless mortal now, faeries?

They leave me loaded down with gifts: a jar of honey, chestnuts, berry jam. I accept them all with curtsies; Thistleweft and I can certainly use them, and I'm not going to refuse faerie payments for the service I've done. But today something unusual appears.

"Here," says a korrigan, holding up a clear plastic bag. "It's iron filings."

The faeries shrink away as I take the bag; the korrigan seems happy to let it go, stepping back with alacrity. And no wonder: iron's deadly poisonous to all faeries.

But not to mortals.

I smile and wave the korrigan off with the others, but I find my eye keeps wandering to that little bag of iron, sitting on top of the pile of gifts. An idea is forming.

"Well?" Thistleweft comes out. "Are they gone at last?"

I nod, and she sniffs. She really doesn't like my patients. "Beggars and riffraff," she's called them more than once. I can sort of understand. They're strangers, mobbing her house. But she knows as well as I do that I can't turn them away, not without just cause. That would give terrible offense—and they'd blame her as well as me. I'm officially her servant, after all, and what I do is her responsibility, at least to an extent.

So all she says is, "I'm going to get some weaving done. Look after Dogwood, eh?" She hands me Dogwood and goes back inside.

I hold Dogwood close under one arm, while with the other hand I hold up the baggie full of venomous metal.

That evening, I sew. I learned how from Oriana, even if—as every female faerie at Court assured me—I am painfully slow and my stitch work will never match theirs because I'm just a mortal, but that's quite good for a human, dear, blah blah blah. But this doesn't have to match the supernatural fineness of Court embroidery. It just has to be the right size and shape, and strong enough for its purpose.

I'm a little surprised by how much I enjoy it. I'd forgotten the slow, contemplative joy of creating something out of fabric and thread, and it reminds me of peaceful afternoons and evenings sitting with Oriana in her parlor, working on our projects together. I look with satisfaction at my finished product: a small pouch, with loops to hang from my belt, a folded-over flap with toggles so I can close it securely but also open it quickly. I take my open can of salt and pour it into the pouch, a steady white stream.

Thistleweft watches, Dogwood fussing in her arms. "Albia," she says nervously, "what are you doing?"

I hold up a finger: hold on a moment. I take out the baggie of iron, and she recoils. Ignoring her, I pour in the iron and mix it with the salt, using my bare hand. Thistleweft stares.

Then I button the pouch shut and place it on the shelf with my clothing, high up where Dogwood won't get at it. I smile at Thistleweft, which doesn't seem to reassure her much. _Don't worry, _I sign. Then my command of sign language runs out, and I have to pull over the notebook one of my patients paid me with. _It's just in case we're attacked while we're out. I'll be able to throw it in their eyes. _It will work even on non-sentient predators: all terrestrial fey creatures are violently allergic to salt, and even more so to iron.

Thistleweft winces a bit, imagining it. A mixture of salt and iron thrown in the eyes of even the most powerful faerie will cause agonizing pain. For the lesser fey, it could even cause permanent blindness. "That's…cold of you, Albia." She sounds both unnerved and admiring. "I guess it _will _be good for you to have some defense…Can't hurt, anyway."

I nod. Indeed, it would have been good for me to have such a defense many years ago. I wonder why I never thought of it before. But of course: I was raised by faeries, taught to fight by them (somewhat ineffectually in my case). It would never have occurred to them to create such a weapon, and so it never occurred to me, either. I only ever fought with _their_ weapons, and I never fought well enough.

At this, an unexpected hardness forms in my breast, a spit of rage. Yet another evil faerie trick: another way to keep me and my sister helpless while pretending to offer acceptance. _Follow these rules and we'll treat you as an equal. Follow these rules and we'll accept you._ Well, I tried following their rules for ten years, and look where it got me. I'm done playing their game.

It's time to make some rules of my own.

The next time Birch comes around, I ask him for more ingredients.

Birch visits a lot, even though Thistleweft is never welcoming. She hisses whenever she sees him and stomps away, taking Dogwood with her. I don't know why she dislikes him so much. He never does anything offensive. In fact, he's fairly quiet and polite. I think he may even be the wood singer who finished the inside of the cottage; he's always got some wood with him, that he's singing into shape.

Thistleweft and I are sitting on the wooden deck at the top of the Tree in the sunshine, changing Dogwood's diaper and practicing sign language, when Thistleweft sees Birch approaching on the treeway. "That man!" she snarls quietly, and scoops Dogwood up. "Back again, the nosy busybody. Come on, Albia."

_In a minute, _I say, standing up.

Thistleweft's mouth thins, and I can tell she wants to command me again, or maybe even drag me down forcibly. But she looks at Birch, who is rapidly growing nearer, and, letting out a disgusted huff, stomps down the ladder without me, Dogwood's voice rising in complaint up the shaft.

Birch, drawing near, sighs deeply, looking down the shaft after them. He shakes his head, but offers no other comment.

I've got to figure out what's going on with those two. But right now I have other priorities. I gulp down my suddenly dry throat, and move closer to the shaft. I'm a bit surprised at my own reaction. Birch has never done anything to make me afraid of him—but I guess I'm not that comfortable with any male faerie these days. _Hello, _I sign.

_Hello, _he signs back, startling a silent laugh out of me.

_Do you know sign language now? _I spin over the notebook, writing out the question and then signing it, for practice.

"Not as much as I'd like," he says aloud. "You need to teach me more, Albia."

A tremor of nervousness runs through me at this. But I spot an opportunity. _I will if you bring me some things from Ironside._

He cocks his head at me. "What kind of things?"

_Iron filings, _I write. _Holly berries. Dried St. John's wort._

His crest rises, and his tail lashes. "Planning on poisoning anyone, Albia?"

I shrug. _Not if I can help it. But it doesn't hurt to be prepared._

He nods slowly. "I can appreciate that." He pauses a moment in thought. "Very well. I can get you your poisons. But I'll need sign language lessons in exchange."

_It's a deal, _I sign—one of the first phrases I've really learned.

"All right, then." He nods. One of the things I really like about Birch is that, unlike most other faeries I've known, he doesn't indulge in double speech or word games. He says what he means, plain and simple.

I'm careful not to smile or show my approval in any way, though. It's best not to let faeries know when you're pleased with them.

Now he glances at the opening to the shaft. "How's Thistleweft doing?" he asks. "And Dogwood?"

_They're fine_, I sign and, at his puzzled look, write the phrase down, adding _Lesson 1._

A smile tugs his lips. "I'd better get those poisons, then, or I'll be in debt to you."

I nod, giving him a hard look: yes, you will. He acknowledges it with a bow of his head.

"Albia!" Thistleweft's yell rises up the shaft. "Get down here now!"

_Goodbye, _I sign to Birch, and turn away. Maybe I do it too abruptly, as a wave of dizziness makes me stumble.

"Careful." Birch hurries to catch me. His grip is firm and unthreatening, but still I jerk away, my heart pounding, skin crawling. He hovers awkwardly, arms still out. "Are you all right?"

I nod, even though fear and disgust are still rippling through me. My stomach's still queasy. Avoiding his gaze, I head down the shaft.

It's several days before Birch returns with the poisons. During that time, a low-level illness seems to run through me: I'm sick when I wake up in the mornings, stumbling out to vomit over the Tree roots, and I have dizzy spells. My breasts feel strange too, sort of tender, and my stomach's always slightly nauseous.

_Sorry, _I sign one morning when Thistleweft comes out to watch me be sick, jiggling Dogwood in her arms, a worried frown on her face. _I can still work, don't worry, _I scratch in the dirt with a stick.

She shakes her head. "That's not what I'm worried about." And she doesn't elaborate any further, however I ask.

While we're making lunch, there's a stamping overhead. Rocking Dogwood, I stiffen, staring upward. Just last night, I awoke to a deep snuffling outside the house, and scrabbling. There was some huge animal out there. I shook Thistleweft awake in panic, but she murmured, "It's just a warg. Can't get in the house. Wake me if the Unseelie King sets his knights on us," and went back to sleep, leaving me staring and incredulous.

Standards of danger are somewhat higher out here than at Court, it would seem. But, in any case, it's no predator come calling. "Hello!" calls Birch's voice. "It's me. I've come back with your stuff, Albia."

"Stuff?" Thistleweft frowns at me. "What stuff?"

Guilt and regret seize me: I forgot to tell Thistleweft! I sign and write as fast as I can: _I'm sorry! I asked Birch to get some ingredients for me from Ironside._

Her eyes narrow to slits. "What ingredients?"

"Can I come down?" Birch shouts.

"No you may not!" she yells back. "We're coming up."

We climb the ladder, Thistleweft stiff and wary, me still shriveling with shame. Birch stands on the platform, holding a basket with several plastic packages inside.

Thistleweft's eyes widen. "Are those—?"

"Albia asked me to get them." Birch looks at me quizzically. "You didn't tell Thistleweft?"

I shake my head, face burning. _I'm sorry!_

She looks furious. "As well you should be!" She half-lunges toward me, and I cringe, but she stops short of hitting me. "What do you want _poisons _for?"

"Self-defense, I assume," says Birch. He's amazingly calm, for a faerie holding a basket full of herbs lethal to his kind. "It's not unreasonable," he says unexpectedly. "A mortal in Faerie needs some protections."

"But those—!" Thistleweft shrinks away from the basket.

_I'm sorry, _I repeat, and take out the notebook again. _I didn't think to ask you. If you tell me not to accept them, I won't._

She hesitates, glancing from me to the basket and then to Dogwood, now starting to fuss in her arms. "You'll use them for self-defense only?" she says. "And to protect Dogwood?" She shifts him to her shoulder as he really starts to wail.

I nod seriously, and place my right hand over my heart: I promise.

"Fine," she growls out at last. "But next time, Albia, ask me before you go bargaining for anything from Ironside. Understand?"

I nod devoutly.

"And I won't have those in the house!" She raises her voice above Dogwood's noise. "Mix up your pouch of poisons if you want, but I want the bulk of those foul things stored outside. Look to it!" And she disappears back down the shaft, Dogwood's howls fading away.

Birch and I stand on the platform, looking at each other. After a moment, I take the basket.

"I'll help you dig a cache for them," Birch says abruptly. "No faerie or fey animal's going to touch them, but we can't leave them where Dogwood can get at them. And I don't think you want them getting wet."

I nod, and jerk my head at ground level. He nods understanding and, giving a flowing leap, overtops the platform and starts down the outside of the Tree, claws scrabbling the bark.

I descend down the shaft. In the cottage, Thistleweft is nursing Dogwood. She gives me an angry look, and I wince in renewed guilt as I go outside.

Out beyond the roses, Birch has already sung two pieces of wood into trowels. We dig in silence, on the edge of the clearing. The hole is deep and narrow. I have to stop to rest several times, my head swimming, but Birch works tirelessly, as strong as any goblin.

We nestle the packages deep within. Birch takes our trowels and, closing his eyes, sings again: a deep hum from his chest. Green light wreaths around his fingers, and the trowels combine into a large round wooden plaque.

He places it over the open hole. "There," he says. "Now, with the right spells—"  
His voice is drowned out by a rising ringing in my ears. Another wave of dizziness is attacking me, but this time it's much worse. I hear Birch's voice raised in alarm as blackness crawls over my vision and all sensation vanishes.

I awake indoors, on the bed. I stare at the ceiling of the bed nook a moment, feeling my heartbeat. What just happened?

"Albia?" The curtain twitches aside and Thistleweft's face appears off to my right. At least she doesn't seem angry anymore, I think muzzily. "You fainted, Albia."

Fainted? Cautiously, I sit up, half-expecting another attack, but nothing happens. I feel a little lightheaded, but overall I'm well again.

Thistleweft hands me a mug of tea. "Here. Drink this."

I do. The tea feels good, scalding down my throat, but Thistleweft's silence and her unwavering gaze are making me nervous.

I hand the mug back. _What's wrong?_ I sign.

Thistleweft gets up to put the mug on the counter for washing, pulling the bed curtain completely aside. I see Dogwood asleep in his cradle. She comes back and sits on the edge of the bed.

"Albia," she says gently, "I think I know your condition. And I think you do, too."

_No. _I shake my head. My hands start to tremble. _No, no._

"Yes," she says, relentless. "You're with child, Albia."

"Albia? Albia!" Thistleweft's voice rings out behind me, but I don't stop. I'm not sure how I ended up running like this—the last thing I remember is sitting up in bed, blank with shock—but nothing's going to stop me now.

I run like the hounds of Arawn are after me, run and run, through slashing bush and lashing branch, stumbling over a stream—to the hissed annoyance of a nixie, lashing her clawed hand at me as I pass—I keep running, as though if I just run fast enough I can escape this new horror.

The ground suddenly gives out beneath me. I fall forward, tumbling down the slope, rolling down over rocks and roots, to fetch up at the base of a pine tree, where I lie gasping, staring at the light through the needles. I'm so dizzy.

No. No. _No!_

"Albia!" Thistleweft has caught up at last, hobbling down the slope. "Idiot! Are you completely _mad_?" she hisses, hauling me to my feet. "That nixie almost killed you! And you've probably alerted every warg in the forest now!" Off in the distance, a howl rises. "Yes, here they come. Quick now!"

We bolt for the nearest tree-ladder, scrabbling up the slope and climbing madly. Below us, the first of the pack arrive, growling and snarling at the base of the tree, but we don't linger to watch. Thistleweft leads the way along the treeways, hurrying home to Dogwood and cursing me, but I barely take in any of her lecture.

No. No. No.

We descend down the shaft into the cottage. Dogwood's wailing in his cradle, and I feel a dash of guilt. Not only did I lead Thistleweft into danger, but Dogwood was left alone. I pick him up, and he quiets, nuzzling close. I hold him close, taking comfort from his warmth, his baby-scent, even though I can't stop trembling.

_With child._

"Idiot!" Thistleweft stands glaring at me, hands on her hips. "What was _that _about?"

All I can do is shake my head, helplessly, over Dogwood's squirming form.

She sighs resignedly. "Sit down," she says. "You should rest anyway."

I sit down on the bench. The tremors keep running through me, shaking my limbs. I set Dogwood down beside me, and he fusses, reaching for me. But I can't hold him any longer: my arms are weak with horror.

No, no. Please no!

Thistleweft sits beside me, taking up Dogwood. "Why did you do that, Albia? It's not as though you can outrun a pregnancy!"

It's then that I realize that it's real, all of it. This is happening.

I'm pregnant. With Balekin's child.

"No, don't faint again!" Thistleweft's voice pulls me back from the growing haze. She slaps me across the face: lightly, but with enough of a sting that I come back, blinking. "Stay with me, Albia. You have to face this."

She's right. I nod, gulping, even as my will crumbles before this new catastrophe. I wipe away tears.

Thistleweft shakes her head. "So many women I know who would give anything to have a child," she murmurs, "and you act like you've heard your own death sentence. Why don't you want this child, Albia?"

All I can do is sit, the curse freezing my very bones.

"Does it have something to do with the father?" she asks at last. Her tone is delicate, tentative. "With…how this child was conceived?" Her gaze bores into me. "Who _was_ the father, Albia? What did he do?"

I stare at her, burning with frustration. I would love above all things to explain: the words burn on my tongue, the whole story, ready to shout it to her, to the forest, to the entire world. I get up to snatch the notebook and sit back next to her, indicating it urgently. Maybe—

But no. My pencil freezes when I try to write the words, the curse stopping my fingers. I lift my hands to sign, but the curse yanks them back into my lap. All I can do is stare at her imploringly, tears running.

She sighs. "Can't tell me?"

I can't even shake my head to this; that would be referring to the events of that night, which the curse forbids. The closest I can get is _I don't want this baby. _My hand shakes as I write. _How can I get rid of it?_

"Get rid of it?" Thistleweft blinks, completely nonplussed. "You mean, before it's born?"

I nod fervently. It's a strange thought, but I've heard human women do it all the time. Maybe Thistleweft knows something. But her blank look isn't encouraging.

Nor is her response. "I'm not sure," she says, frowning. "I…There are several methods I know something of. From mortal women. But I'm no expert, Albia. And…they're very dangerous. They could kill you."

_How?_

She explains, and I'm sorry I asked. I hold my stomach (of all ironies!), and lean away, feeling sick. I shake my head weakly.

"Well, we would be better off avoiding those," she agrees. She frowns some more. "We could go Ironside, I suppose. There are doctors…I think. But I really don't know how to go about that."

Neither do I. We sit in dismal silence. Outside, twilight is gathering.

"Well, if you really don't want the child," she says eventually, "there's always the changeling spell, you know. Wait until it's born, then switch it out with a human baby. You're not a faerie commoner after all, there's nothing stopping you…"

I shake my head, shuddering. I can't do that. I could never do that. Do to some poor, innocent human infant what was done to me? Leave some hapless mortal mother with my strange, wild faerie baby? Abandon my defenseless child, alone in the human world?

I blink at this last thought. Here's a contradiction: I want with all my heart to be rid of this baby, but at the same time I can't bear to think of it growing up as a miserable, lonely faerie child on the Ironside. I hate this baby—and I want to protect it! Perverse but true.

Thistleweft sighs and stands up, lighting the glow-lamp with a stroke of her hand. She begins bustling around, making dinner. Practical as ever: we still need to eat. Though I feel like I'll never be hungry again.

On the bench beside me, Dogwood's fallen asleep. I pull him onto my lap, cradling his weight. He wakes up momentarily, opening his eyes, before falling asleep again. I cuddle him close, tears pricking my eyes. I wish _he_ was my child, instead of this rape-bred bastard growing inside me.

I let out a silent, despairing moan. Why, out of all the women Balekin bedded over hundreds of years—human and faerie both—did _I _have to be the only one to conceive? For, as Eldred pointed out, he's never fathered another child in all his long centuries. There has never even been the _rumor _of a child. The consensus at Court was that he and his brother Dain—along with Cardan most likely—were all as infertile as frozen ice floes.

So why me? Why now? What makes me different from all the rest?

And, of course, as soon as I ask the right question, I immediately know the answer.

The unicorn.

After the rape, the unicorn blessed me. I remember that wonderful feeling of warmth, spreading inside me like sunlight. That touch must have done more than heal me; it must have galvanized Balekin's sterile seed, brought it to life, so I conceived.

So this isn't just Balekin's child, or mine. It's also the unicorn's.

And then I realize that I daren't do anything to harm this child, before or after its birth. It's nearly impossible to imagine the unicorn angry, but I have to assume it could happen. And what would be more likely to anger her than doing harm to her child? And what might she do to me then?

So I'm stuck with this baby, at least until its birth. And what, oh what, am I going to do with it then?

The scent of Thistleweft's cooking tantalizes me. Meat and acorn bread. I remember that earlier moment of apprehension, that faerie gifts were seldom free, and give a grim, silent laugh.

I guess I haven't finished paying after all.

**(Note: I apologize if any readers find Taryn's desire to terminate her pregnancy offensive. I am not trying to make social commentary here, or advocate a particular side in the debate; this is simply how I imagine Taryn would react under the circumstances.)**


	6. Chapter 6: Birth

Birth

It doesn't take me long to decide that I really hate being pregnant.

I faint a few more times, until Thistleweft finally bans me from the heavy work. I spend hours sitting with Dogwood in the house or on the tree deck, feeling the low-level queasiness roil inside me, the dizziness, occasionally vomiting, and I hate Balekin with a vengeance. That he has subjected me to _this_! I thought most of my rage had been beaten out of me years ago, but now my soul scratches and howls at the injustice, as I suffer constipation and sickness and violent mood swings and my belly starts to round out, hard and gross and uncomfortable.

What's really disgusting is that everyone's so _happy _for me. The water fey stop trying to snatch me off the bank and instead rub my stomach, cooing and asking when the baby's due. Faeries make way for me in the treeways and the village, looking at my stomach with awe. Heartwood nods at me approvingly every time she sees me. "A baby, eh? Congratulations, Albia! A new little one soon." She and the other female goblins have lots of advice to give me on what to eat and what to avoid, and as my pregnancy continues, Heartwood makes me drink a strangely spiced concoction in an unfired clay cup every few weeks.

Then she makes me eat the cup. Apparently, I need the minerals.

Even the twins, rushing maniacally past, pause to congratulate me as I'm finishing off my final, dusty crumbs of cup. "Wow, a baby! Nice work, Albia! Let's hope it's twins!" And off they go, laughing madly as they swing themselves into the branches.

I watch them, feeling even sicker than usual. Twins. Please, no. I know, I am one myself, but the last thing I need is _two _babies. Two of Balekin's babies. I shudder.

Thistleweft takes my hand. "Never mind them."

I squeeze her hand back. I don't know how I'd get through this without her. Only Thistleweft knows how awful this is for me. She's taken care of me when I wake up sick in the nights; she's held me while I weep in sudden, bottomless pits of despair. She suspects what happened to conceive this child—of course she does, she's not stupid—but never brings it up or presses me for details. She just helps me get through it, one day at a time.

Now, though, she stiffens with the look of angry disgust that only one person can inspire in her. "That man!"

Dismally, I look up to watch Birch approach across the main village platform, past the Knot. He's got a sort of baskety-looking wooden thing today—I think it's a fish trap. He doesn't seem to do any hunting or fishing himself, but everyone wants a trap made by him.

He stops a few yards away, prudently out of striking distance from Thistleweft. "Good morning, ladies," he says. "How are you doing? How's Dogwood?"

"Fine," Thistleweft says grudgingly. "He's starting to sit up on his own now," she can't help adding boastfully. She jiggles him on her hip, and he giggles madly. "Now, if you'll excuse us, we must be going." She starts to lead me away.

"No, wait." He takes a step after us. "We haven't had any sign language lessons lately, Albia."

_Sorry_, I sign, and indicate my growing belly.

He takes a tactful look. Birch alone of the tribe hasn't congratulated me on my pregnancy. I think he's the only one, besides Thistleweft, who's noticed my misery. "Yes, but can't we start again?" His voice hardens. "You owe me lessons, Albia. We agreed."

"He's right, you know," Thistleweft says grudgingly. "You can't renege on a deal. Even that one." She sniffs; she still disapproves of my poisons.

Reluctantly, I nod. _Tomorrow_, I sign, and he bows courteously. I feel him watching us as we leave the village, walking along the quiet treeway back to the cottage.

I sink down on our platform, knees giving way. Before me, my stomach sticks out like a small, hard ball—and it's only going to get worse in the coming months. I close my eyes against the dizziness inspired by the exertion of strolling slowly a mile through the canopy, along a calm, level treeway. Do women really do this _voluntarily_?

Bitterly, I wonder what Balekin's doing right now. Probably out hunting with his friends, or partying at some Court revel, and not sparing me a single thought. Of course not, I think, my bitterness intensifying. Why should he? What was I to _him_? Just something to be used for his pleasure and tossed aside to endure _this_. I shrink away at the thought and try to curl up, but my stomach won't let me. Yet another liberty taken away.

Slow tears trickle down my cheeks. I stare up at the gently waving green leaves against the blue sky. Why is everything always taken away from me? My parents, my home. My sisters, my voice. My virginity, my honor. Now I don't even have control over my own body. I don't have control over anything. A wave of vertigo washes over me, like I'm standing at the edge of a precipice.

Maybe that would be for the best, I think suddenly. After all, I was edging toward death even before the assault. I could just throw myself from one of the higher platforms and smash on the ground. It would all be over in seconds. I wouldn't have to have the baby, and the unicorn could hardly punish me then. Problem solved.

Downstairs, Dogwood's voice rises in a complaining howl. "Albia!" Thistleweft shouts over the noise. "Come down! I need your help!"

Wearily, I drag myself to my feet, hauling my stomach with me. I can't kill myself. Who's going to help with Dogwood if I'm dead?

The next day, I sit on the platform, sewing another bag for my faerie-repellent. With the herbs added to the salt and iron, I've got a lovely lethal mixture, guaranteed to send hostile faeries running. I've been practicing throwing it, too. Not with my poisons, of course, which are too valuable, but sand from the river. I've set up a practice dummy and have practiced opening the bag and throwing sand until my arm aches. Hopefully I'll have the reflex when danger next strikes.

It's easy, really. All I have to do is pretend I'm throwing salt in Balekin's eyes.

Now I sew a black belt-pouch for my poisons, while Thistleweft's loom clacks below and Dogwood chews on a long, polished stick, lying in his basket beside me. He throws the stick overboard and his face crumbles, the howl starting. I restore his toy, and he gurgles. I wince as another pain bites through me, and lean back, my stomach heavy. The baby twists inside me; it's started moving.

"Hello, Albia." It's Birch, striding along the treeway toward us. He squats down and pokes Dogwood gently. _Hello, boy, _he signs at him. _How are you?_

_ You don't need lessons_, I sign. _You're good already._

"Not good enough," he says with a sigh. He nods down at the shaft. "How's Thistleweft today?"

_Fine. _I sit up straighter. _Let's practice more signs._

We practice signing while the sun beams down around us and the leaves whisper against the sky. It's so quiet and peaceful. If only I could enjoy it.

Another pain grips me, and I close my eyes. _Sorry. I'm not feeling well._

"I can see that." He pulls Dogwood into his lap. Dogwood coos and snatches at the tassels on his vest. "It wasn't this bad for Thistleweft," Birch says, looking at me sympathetically.

_ Good_, I sign, and pull over the notebook as my command of sign language gives out. _We're thinking of adopting out the baby, once it's born._

He cocks his head at me quizzically. "You don't want the child?"

I shake my head, avoiding his gaze.

"Well, you don't stay sick forever, you know." He smiles slightly at his joke.

I don't smile. Nothing about this is funny.

He sighs, humor fading. "Have you already promised the child to anyone?"

I shake my head. _Thistleweft says to wait until it's born healthy_. She bustled around me when she made that decision: "After all, Albia, you can't know if you'll even bring it to term. Better to wait and see instead of breaking a promise of a live, healthy baby." I didn't have the strength to argue, or point out that this baby's virtually guaranteed to be born alive and healthy. The unicorn-blessed child of a human woman and a Prince of Faerie? It'll go to term, all right, and be born kicking and screaming with health.

"Ah, well." He shrugs. "That's probably wise."

We sit in silence a moment more. Dogwood starts crawling across Birch's lap toward me, and I take him back, jiggling him on my knee.

"_Why _don't you want the child?" Birch asks suddenly. There's no condemnation or censure in his voice, just curiosity.

I stare at him with burning eyes. The curse grips me like a vise. I can't make the smallest move to tell him the true reason. All I can do is sit there, burning with frustration.

He stiffens a little, crest twitching. "All right," he says huffily. "Don't tell me."

I shake my head, tears stinging my eyes. _I'm sorry_, is all I can sign. _I'm sorry._

"For what?" He frowns.

"Albia!" Thistleweft howls up the shaft, and we both jump. Dogwood starts to cry. "You've got a patient waiting!"

_Got to go. _I place Dogwood in his basket and, with an effort, haul myself to my feet. My stomach sticks out, a burden I can't put down: gross and heavy.

Birch hands me the basket full of screaming Dogwood, and my sewing. I nod at him. _Tomorrow?_

_Tomorrow_, he agrees. _I'll bring a gift for you soon_, he adds.

I step back, immediately wary. Why would he be bringing me gifts? Is this some devious plan? My heart quickens.

_Don't worry_, he signs, correctly reading my face. Then he switches to spoken language. "I'm not trying to put you in my debt. I just owe you more, that's all." I hang back, still eyeing him suspiciously. He gives an impatient sigh. "I mean it. I'm not trying to harm or trick you. But my debt to you grows. I have to pay it off somehow."

I tilt my head quizzically and frown at him. What debt? How can he owe me anything? I've never healed him, even. Sure, I've been teaching him sign language, but that's hardly a huge favor, and anyway we agreed it was in repayment for the poisons he brought me.

_What debt?_ When he doesn't respond, I stamp my foot a little, impatiently, and glare.

He glares back. "Tell me what happened to make you not want the child," he says evenly, "and I'll explain my debt."

I glare at him helplessly.

"Right then." He nods in victory and turns around. "See you tomorrow," he says over his shoulder.

I glower after him as he strides off, before turning to head down into the cottage. Maybe Thistleweft is right when she says he's the most irritating man she knows.

Irritating or not, he keeps coming back. A few weeks go by of daily lessons, patients outside the door and, of course, pregnancy. Grimly, I practice throwing poison in imaginary enemies' eyes, though even that exertion soon has me puffing for breath. The baby wriggles inside me like a fish. Will this ever be over?

Then Birch says he's off on a trip. _I'll be gone a few days, I think, _he signs, standing with me on the platform. He's getting really good. _On the Ironside._

_Be careful_, I caution him. I've treated enough iron-poisoned faeries by now to be cautious of the human world. Half my patients seem to have come back from Ironside with infected cuts and swollen flesh, skin blackened by iron poisoning. I'm a bit surprised by the force of my concern for Birch now.

_I will_, he nods, and waves. _See you soon._

Thistleweft crawls up the shaft behind me, taking Dogwood and glaring after Birch. "Off he goes!" she growls. "Not a care in the world. Frivolous as ever!"

_He's all right_, I say. _I don't think he's frivolous. _Indeed, compared to most faeries, he's positively staid and focused.

"Gadding about Ironside," she mutters. "Completely irresponsible! Come on, Albia, we'd better work on the cradle and the layette."

Reluctantly, I follow her downstairs, swinging myself heavily down the ladder. She's started insisting that I sew things for the baby, while she works on weaving a basketwork cradle. To say I'm reluctant is a huge understatement. I have no desire to sew this baby's clothes, its blankets or its diapers. I don't want to stuff a little silken sack with silk fluff for a mattress. It makes me sick to think about baby toys, or watch Thistleweft weave a basketwork cradle, decorated with green and blue ribbons. I have no wish to prepare for this baby in any way.

_Why do we have to do this?_ I'm so reluctant that my sewing feels like it weighs a ton. _We're just going to adopt it out._

"You never know," she says sternly, taking up the cradle. It's almost complete. "And whatever happens, your baby's going to need clothes once it's born. So get to work."

Sullenly, I begin sewing. I don't argue. But I still don't want this baby.

It's a few days before Birch returns. Thistleweft and I have been indoors most of those days, trapped by a raging storm. Not only are the storms of Faerie themselves violent and dangerous, with howling winds, driving rain and multi-colored lightning that strikes with devastating force, but they also embolden and encourage monsters of various kinds. While we sat sewing or weaving indoors during the storm, we listened to the singing cries of Ly Ergs, followed by cackling blood-goblins, while trolls rumbled from higher in the mountains. Even the tree goblins went wild, especially the males, swinging through the canopy, screaming and laughing with mad delight, tearing apart any creature unfortunate enough to encounter them. No, not a great time to go adventuring beyond the Tree.

So by the time the storm clears away and the sun comes out, we are ready for it. The first clear afternoon, we sit out on the root bench, sewing and spinning, while a long line of faeries, injured from the storm, await my healing touch.

"Ooh, that storm was awful," moans a pixie. She gives a little gasp as I heal her mangled wings. "They're getting worse all the time, you know. It's climate change. Here you go, Lady Healer." She gives me a vial of sparkling pixie-dust.

"Climate change is Ironside, nitwit," says a goblin, nursing a conked head. He winces and cradles his skull.

"It still impacts us," a korrigan with a broken arm insists. The pixie has already flown away to rejoin her flock, injury and conversation completely forgotten.

"One more way in which mortals screw everything up," mutters the goblin. "No offense meant, Unicorn-Blessed," he adds hastily as he reaches me.

I shrug and lay on my hands. He lets out a sigh of relief as his injury heals, and hands me a loaf of nut-bread.

Beside me, Thistleweft looks up from nursing Dogwood and stiffens. "Birch! What are you doing here? Clear off! Can't you see we're busy?"

"Good afternoon to you, Thistleweft." The other faeries hastily step aside as Birch approaches across the clearing. Faeries always make way for Birch; he may not say much, but he has a strange authority. He ignores the line completely, bowing before me and Thistleweft. "And good afternoon, Albia."

I stand up to give an awkward, heavy bob in reply. _Hello, Birch. How was your trip?_

He shrugs. "Productive. I've brought you the gift I promised." He reaches into his vest and withdraws a silk-wrapped bundle.

Thistleweft cranes over my shoulder and all the other faeries crowd near as I unwrap the package. But they all recoil as the gift itself is revealed.

It's a knife. But not just any knife. This is a human-made knife, with a handle of black plastic and a blade of pure, deadly steel.

"Birch!" Thistleweft yells, clutching Dogwood and backing away. "What are you _thinking_?"

"Albia's mortal," he says calmly. "She can use mortal steel. And certainly she could use a weapon."

"First salt, then poisons, now a steel blade!" Thistleweft seethes. "What's next, holy water?"

"Not a bad idea," Birch says thoughtfully.

"That was rhetorical, you idiot!"

I barely hear them. All my attention is on the knife in my hands. It's encased in a black leather sheath, neatly made, with a loop to run a belt through. I unsheathe the blade, and everyone gasps at the gleam of sunlight on the poisonous metal. Poisonous, that is, to everyone but me.

I run a finger along its edge. Deadly sharp. It balances perfectly, and it's just the right size for me.

"There's a whetstone that goes with it." Birch hands it over.

I put both knife and whetstone aside. Everyone eyes them with nervous awe. I'm a little surprised by their reaction, to be honest; faeries at Court were much more blasé about iron and steel. But they were stronger faeries, and death-metal weaponry's actually not that uncommon at the High Court. The mortal knights and soldiers all had steel weapons, and even some of the faeries wielded them—albeit very carefully. Out here, most faeries who don't regularly travel to the human world may never even see iron or steel, and they're far more likely to be injured or killed by it if they do encounter it.

_This is a good weapon_, I sign. I'm getting good these days. _Where did you get it?_

He shrugs. "I have a longstanding arrangement with a certain mortal. I give him sculptures of wood to sell, and he gives me things like this in exchange."

"Oh, trading for iron weapons, are you?" huffs Thistleweft. "What else have you got going?"

He shrugs, which probably means that he does, indeed, have lots of other things going, and turns to me. "Well, Albia? Do you accept them?"

I nod. I take up the knife again. It nestles in my hand like it was made for me. It feels good. In fact, it makes me feel much better. For the first time since learning of my pregnancy, I feel myself cheering up.

Try and touch me now, faeries.

And indeed, no one does. During my last few months of pregnancy, the faeries of the forest make way for me, step back, eyeing both my belly and the knife and pouch I carry always. I'm too big for belts these days, so I sew loops into the loose smocks Thistleweft tailors for me, and hang the knife and pouch from them. The knife gleams and the pouch is a deep, brooding black. I embroidered a blood-red death's head butterfly on its flap: the universal faerie symbol for poisonous substances. My weapons are both easily accessible and in plain view, a visible warning.

Don't you try anything, faeries.

Naturally, none of this makes any impression on the baby. As I predicted, it grows strong and healthy inside me, swelling like a balloon. It kicks inside me, so hard that sometimes it wakes me up in the night. Other times it goes still, and I wonder if it's fallen asleep. Or dead. Is it awful of me to sort of wish it would die?

Thistleweft too is unimpressed by my knife. "For hawthorn's sake, Albia, put that knife down! No one's going to attack you inside our Tree. Come help with dinner. We can use our new rock."

I put the knife and pouch aside, and waddle heavily over. One of my patients, a rock goblin with a sickly baby, recently paid me with a cook-stone: a large, smooth flat boulder that radiates heat. You can adjust the levels as needed, whether you need to boil water, heat the room or turn it off completely. It works beautifully, and is a definite improvement over that smoky fire. I'm still a little wary of this gift—surely any faerie gift so extravagant will come with strings attached—but Thistleweft's completely in love.

I kneel down to help. And as I do, a cramp unlike anything I've ever experienced runs through me, and water suddenly gushes from between my legs.

I fall aside, letting out a soundless cry. Thistleweft jerks her head up.

"Albia!" Dogwood begins to wail, but she puts him aside to hurry over. "Is it starting?"

My whole body is seizing up. Another cramp races through me, and I give a silent shriek. I can feel the baby lowering, squeezing downward.

"Drink this." A cup of water appears at my lips and I drink it all down. "And hold on. This is going to be a long night."

And indeed it is.

I pace back and forth across the cottage, letting out silent yelps and curses as the pains grow ever stronger and more nearly spaced. I wish more than ever for my voice back. Somehow it's all even worse that I have to suffer this silently.

Thistleweft holds onto me, letting me lean against her, as she walks me back and forth. "Let me know when you need to rest, Albia. How's it going?"

I squeeze her hand, so hard that I feel her bones click together.

"Ah, good." She nods, wincing. "Keep going!"

I give a watery smile. I'm glad she's here. But I wish, desperately, for my own mother, my human mother. Eva. This makes no sense, I think through the haze of pain and fear. She's been dead for a decade. I hardly remember what she looks like. But now I want her _back_. I _need_ her.

Mom, help me!

Then a pain unlike any other hits me. I scream silently, and Thistleweft supports me as I sink to my knees, hands braced on a shelf.

Mom!

Thistleweft checks beneath my skirt. "Yes! It's crowned. You're almost there! Push!"

I bite my lip, straining, straining, every part of me squeezing and straining.

"Good job! It's coming. Again!"

More squeezing, more straining, more effort than I've ever brought to bear on anything. Then a great wave runs through me, and there's a high, wailing cry.

"Yes!" Thistleweft scoops up the tiny, slimy, greenish bundle. "Here she is! It's a girl! And, oh my, look at that hair…"

A girl.

She shrieks again, this new little girl, as I slide down, collapsing to the floor with relief that it's over, and the afterbirth comes sliding out. Thistleweft wipes away slime, wraps the baby in a blanket and hands her to me, placing her on my chest.

Thistleweft busies herself cleaning me up, wiping blood from my legs and taking away the afterbirth, but I hardly notice. I look down, bracing myself. I never wanted this baby. I don't want her now. And now I'm going to be the worst kind of mother: the kind who hates her own child.

I look down, and I see the unicorn.

Not literally, of course. But the unicorn is the first thing I think of when I look down at the child's head.

Look at that hair, indeed. She has a silken bonnet on her head, an amazing quantity for a newborn. And it is the purest white imaginable, whiter than any whiteness of the earth. It gleams like melted pearl in the lamplight.

This is the unicorn's hair.

This is the unicorn's child.

The unicorn's daughter lifts her eyes, and I blink, startled by their pure, twilight-purple color, flecked with silver sparks. I lift aside a lock of silken unicorn-hair to inspect her ears. They are gently pointed, as Vivienne's were. The child's rosiness is tinged with green. She is a child of Faerie. But she is also _my _child. Mine and the unicorn's.

I pull down my bodice and guide a nipple into her mouth. She clenches down immediately, jaws working. I wince as the milk starts flowing, simple as a miracle. My daughter sucks greedily, and I smile in delight at her strength and hunger, at her beauty, at her utter perfection.

"Albia?" Thistleweft's voice breaks my reverie. She's holding Dogwood, and my eyes fill with tears at the beauty of the scene: her with her child, I with mine. "Want me to bandage you?"

I nod, and she gets me bandaged up and into a clean nightgown and then into bed. I lie down, and never does the child stop feeding. I can't tear my eyes away. I can't stop smiling.

"I've never seen that expression on you before." Thistleweft chuckles dryly. "Still want to adopt her out, Albia?"

I shake my head, never removing my gaze from the child, feeling her weight in my arms. This is my child, and the unicorn's. I want her. I want her.

"I knew it!" Thistleweft rocks Dogwood smugly. "I had a premonition," she says. "That you would want the baby once it was born. That was why I got us prepared." She gestures at the new baby things.

I shoot her a look, half amused, half annoyed, and she chuckles again. "Well, if you're not going to give her up," she says, ever practical, "you need to name her. What are you going to call your daughter, Albia?"

I look down at the unicorn-hair of my child. I haven't given a thought to a name. But now the perfect one floats up.

_Philomel. _I spell it out with one hand, signing the letters in midair.

"Philomel." Thistleweft tries out the syllables, and nods approvingly. "It's a good name."

It is the perfect name. And this is the perfect moment, holding my daughter safe and warm, while Thistleweft looks on in happiness and Dogwood drifts off to sleep.


	7. Chapter 7: Death

Death

I keep waiting to hate Philomel. I keep waiting to look at her and see Balekin.

I don't.

Instead, I see the unicorn more clearly than ever, once her daughter's cleaned up and unfolded from birth. Her hair trails, a silken banner straight from the unicorn's mane, and her eyes are as depthless as her other mother's. How could I hate her? She's the daughter of my savior.

In these long, slow days after the birth, as I lie in bed resting and healing, Thistleweft weaving nearby, my daughter in my arms, the sunlight pouring in a golden glow around us, I find myself thinking of my own mother. But now I find I can think of her without the old bitterness, anger and horror. For the first time, I feel like I truly understand Eva. Why she did what she did, when she learned she was pregnant with Vivienne. Why she ran, even though she knew Madoc would find her, and what he would do when he did. Because any risk was worth taking for her child. Any chance, however small, had to be taken, if it would secure her child's safety and freedom. Nothing, nothing in any world, mattered more than her child.

I know, because that's exactly how I feel about Philomel, in these first days of her life.

As soon as I'm up and about, Thistleweft and I take Philomel to the goblin village be blessed. It's a simple ceremony by the Knot, with Heartwood pronouncing the blessing while daubing Philomel's forehead with honey, water and blood. She uses some of her own blood, which is a great honor, and then stabs Philomel's hand for the Knot. She screams, face crumpling, and I flinch a little, but Heartwood dabs my daughter's blood on the Knot and puts her under the protection of the trees. She then hands her back to me, grinning broadly. "Good job, Albia," she says. "Excellently done."

I nod, cuddling the still-howling Philomel close. I catch her waving hand with, with a flash of the unicorn's power, heal her. She stops screaming and coos, curling up in my arms.

The blessing feast lies ready on the trestle tables set up in the goblins' square. I stand, flower-crowned, holding my newly blessed child and accepting congratulations. Thistleweft stands beside me, holding Dogwood. We both hold ourselves straighter, Thistleweft lifting her head, as the goblins and other forest fey file past, urging their personal blessings on us and regarding us with awe. And, indeed, who can now doubt that we are a pair of powerful, high-ranked women? Both of us fertile, with healthy, living children, both of us with special gifts, living together inside one of the Great Trees? No wonder the dryads edge away with wonderstruck expressions and the goblins bow low, hoping for our favor.

Birch comes up and Thistleweft stiffens, but he ignores her to bow to me. "Congratulations, Albia." He hesitates. "I trust it _is _congratulations? Are you happy with the child?"

I nod, beaming. In my arms, Philomel stirs, fussing a little. I'm going to have to feed her soon.

"Good." He nods in satisfaction and turns to Thistleweft. "And you, Thistleweft? How are you and Dogwood coping?"

"Well enough, as you see," she says coldly. "We're quite used to babies in our house, you know." In her arms, Dogwood struggles, and she bounces him on her hip. "No, Dogwood. Mama can't put you down here. You might fall off the edge."

"Well, I'm glad you are all happy." Birch gives me a flickering glance. "Whatever the circumstances." He gives Dogwood a poke. "Be nice to your sister now, Dogwood." He heads off to the banquet table.

"I suppose Philomel _is _Dogwood's sister now, isn't she?" says Thistleweft thoughtfully. "In a sense. Don't you think, Albia…?"

I hardly hear her. I'm frowning after Birch. Does he suspect…? With an effort, I turn back. Even if he does, Birch won't use his suspicions to harm me. He's not the type.

Still, the thought's enough to cast a shadow on the moment. I hunch over Philomel, as though trying to protect her from the stoop of a hawk. I think again of my mother, and a fierce fear and determination seize me: I can't let anything happen to this child. I can't let anyone bring her harm. Not Balekin, not anyone. Ever.

"Hey." Thistleweft's voice calls me back. She nudges me. "None of that now. This is a happy day."

I pull myself together and nod. She's right. I hoist up a smile and greet the next well-wisher.

Later, when I'm following Thistleweft home, Dogwood grizzling over her shoulder while Philomel sleeps in my arms, I think again of Balekin and tighten my grip on my daughter. If Balekin ever learned of her, he'd stop at nothing to get his hands on her. Fathering a child—even illegitimately, on a mortal girl—would raise his chances of inheriting the throne astronomically. He'd snatch her away the instant he found out about her, parade her around the High Court as his daughter. His miracle child. He'd be King Eldred's favored son, right at the head of the line for succession. He'd brag endlessly about how he fathered a child and his brothers didn't. The courtiers would be all over him. He'd be unassailable.

But Balekin _doesn't _know about Philomel. And he never will.

A smirk lifts my lips.

It was common knowledge at Court that Eldred has been getting impatient with his sons' infertility for a few decades now. I saw him bully Dain and Balekin about it a few times, like at the ball: making pointed remarks about their lack of offspring at Court functions, while the courtiers tittered and the Princes squirmed. I felt sorry for them—then. Now I feel nothing but malicious glee as I imagine Balekin writhing, infuriated and helpless, before one of his father's jeers while the whole Court sneers and snickers. Later, he'll go home, gnashing his teeth and wondering furiously how to remedy the situation, and all the while I have a beautiful little girl who he doesn't know a thing about, and never will!

Take a bite of _that _and chew, Bale-boy!

In my arms, Philomel wakes and squalls, her face crumpling. I open my shirt and let her suckle as I walk. Her pull is greedy, and I smile to see her feed, so strong and healthy. Thrive on, my daughter.

There are no seasons in Faerie, not as Earth knows them. Trees go through short cycles, perhaps only days-long, of putting out tender new leaves, letting the leaves mature, and then fall from the branches in red and gold cascades, only to be replaced with fresh new growth. Barring enchantment or atmospheric disturbances such as storms, the air remains ever the same: mild and warm. Fruits and nuts are always ripe, always at their most eatable moment. Only the heavenly bodies—sun, moon, stars and planets—track the flow of the year, and, for a human like me, who can't see so well at night and who has plenty of responsibilities here on earth, it's easy to lose track of time.

So I'm genuinely surprised when Thistleweft turns me one day and says, "We need to make you a New Year's dress, Albia."

In the middle of changing Philomel while Dogwood clings to my leg, practicing standing up and taking steps, I blink up at Thistleweft. New Year? Have I really been here a whole year?

On the bed, Philomel shrieks for attention, and I hastily wrap her in her new clean diaper. I guess it has been a while. Philomel has plumped up into a beautiful three-month-old. She still can't sit up, but she can lift her head a little, and her eyes focus on everything. She grabs a hank of my hair and yanks. I extricate myself from her grip, eyes watering. She's certainly strong.

"You should wear white to the village festival." Thistleweft takes hold of Dogwood's hands and marches him around the room. He laughs, "Mama! Walk-walk!"

"It's appropriate to your position as the Lady Healer," Thistleweft continues bossily over the noise. "White with silver embroidery, in honor of the unicorn. I'll get started tonight. And you should add some embroidery or something to Philomel's best gown."

I straighten, putting Philomel to my shoulder. Nausea roils in me. Why do I feel so reluctant? It's just a party. But the Court ball was just a party, too. A New Year party.

_I'd rather not go_, I sign, shifting Philomel awkwardly.

"Don't be silly, Albia." She's only half-attending, swinging Dogwood around to his shrieked laughter. "It's the most important event of the year. And you're the Lady Healer. You can't not go."

She has a point. But still I argue. _Bad things happen to mortals at faerie revels_. And, while the goblins may have been kind to me and I have rank among them, they're still faeries. And, at the revel, they will be drunken faeries.

"Oh, nonsense, Albia." She hoists Dogwood into the air, to his happy squeals. "No one's going to hurt you—not if they want you to keep healing them and making sure their babies live. And anyway, I'll be there."

_Shouldn't I stay here with the babies? _I plead. _You can go, without being saddled with us. Have some time to yourself for once._

She abruptly stops playing, going stone-still in the middle of the room. "Mama!" Dogwood complains, still dangling from her grasp.

She ignores him. She doesn't look at me, but stares out the window. "Time to myself," she says in an odd, flat voice, "is the very last thing I want."

She puts Dogwood down. He wails in protest, but she ignores him, going to prepare dinner. I go to attend him, staring at Thistleweft. She works with a stiff back and a pinched green face, slicing the fruit a little too hard, too fast. As though she's trying to cut away something more than shiny crescents of fruit.

That night, Thistleweft ascends to the canopy with her spindle, and I awake the next morning to the clatter of her loom as she weaves the glowing threads of moonlight into a fabulous silver-white fabric.

She makes me stand on the stool as she takes my measurements, before taking up her scissors, needle and thread. Her scissors flash, her needle whips, and in a fraction of the time it would have taken a mortal seamstress, she has the dress ready for me.

Reverently, I touch it. It truly is beautiful: a simple silver-white dress woven entirely from moonlight, a flowing ankle-length skirt, with long sleeves and a low-cut bodice that buttons down the front. "So you can nurse Philomel," she explains in her no-nonsense way. She shakes out the dress, and it settles in airy waves. "It needs embellishment, though. I don't suppose you could trace a few designs for me?"

I nod, unsurprised. Thistleweft may be a great weaver and seamstress, but she has no more imagination or creativity than any other faerie. She can make a glorious dress within an hour, but it's still a dress she's made many times before, no doubt designed by a mortal. She can't think of any original designs, or original decorations to go with it. That's a mortal talent.

Accordingly, I draw out the designs: modest chains of flowers, mostly, and an edging of silver along the bodice. I do include two whorled motifs like unicorn horns, to be embroidered high on the sleeves, near my shoulders. It won't hurt to remind everyone of my status as the Unicorn-Blessed.

Thistleweft watches, bouncing Dogwood on her knee, while Philomel sleeps. "So amazing," she murmurs quietly. "How mortals can do this. Just think of new designs like this. How_do _you do it?"

I shrug. _It's natural for us._ I finish the final design and begin to run the pricking wheel over the paper.

"Yeah, that's what Mary used to say—" She breaks off suddenly.

I glance up. _Who's Mary?_

She's quiet a moment, letting Dogwood tug her finger. He giggles and coos. "I used to work with a mortal designer," she says at last. "Centuries ago. Her name was Mary. She was very good. Though she must be dead by now."

My eyebrows shoot up. Only aristocrats, associated with royal Courts, are ever allowed to steal away mortals, to bring them to work and live in Faerie; it's a major badge of status, and a constant irritant to common faeries. The only way Thistleweft could ever have worked with a mortal is at a Court—and she's never said anything about being at a Court before. I want to ask more, but something about her closed, shuttered face, her determined focus on Dogwood, tells me not to.

I turn back to pricking out the first design. I suppose I can live with yet another secret.

The New Year revel arrives. Thistleweft and I both don our clothes, and I can't help comparing how different this is to the last revel I attended. Instead of an intricate gown that needs a maid to put on properly, I slip on my simple moonlight dress. The live white flowers Thistleweft embroidered into the fabric, using my designs, breathe out their scent at my every move. I dress Philomel in a similar outfit, admiring the sparkle of light on the designs I embroidered. At the same time, Thistleweft puts on her gown of green leaves and gold sunlight and dresses Dogwood in a little red vest over black trousers. Then, instead of being handed into a coach, we place our babies in their carriers, swing them onto our backs, and climb up the ladder to the treeway.

I bring my knife and salt with me, hidden in the folds of my dress. Just in case.

The Red Branch village is alight: fireflies gleam in woven cages and pixies dash to and fro, leaving trails of multicolored light behind them. Everywhere, goblins are dressed in their best: feathers and flowers abound, with embroideries of light and fabrics of leaves. Music rings out in intermittent bursts. The Red Branch being the major power in this valley, lots of other faeries are attending too, with even the water hags hulking, weed-covered, in the village square. They bar mossy teeth at me; I lift my head and pass by.

It costs me to pretend I'm all right. Inside, I'm shaking. There's a pain in my abdomen, like Balekin is tearing into me again. His hands on me. I close my eyes against another hideous flashback. _Focus_. I open my eyes and force a smile to my lips. Balekin is far away. No one here is going to hurt me.

Thistleweft and I bow low to Heartwood, who is enthroned on a chair of branches, swathed in cloth of autumn leaves. "Good evening, ladies," she greets us, smoke from her pipe wreathing around her head. "Joyous New Year."

"Joyous New Year," Thistleweft replies, and I sign it too. "May you and your tribe continue in power and prosperity," Thistleweft says, and I agree.

"And you two as well." Heartwood takes up a cup of mead in a toast. "May you remain happy and powerful together."

Thistleweft hesitates a moment. "May it be so," she says at last. "But should we pay tribute to the trees now, Heartwood?"

"Actually, we were waiting for Albia before we got started." Heartwood turns to me. "Albia, can you wait by the Knot? We all have to renew our contract with the trees tonight by shedding some blood. You can heal everyone as they do so."

I nod and curtsy, secretly grateful to be given a task that will keep me occupied and give me an excuse not to party.

I stand by the Knot, that center of tree goblin power, and heal each goblin and goblin ally as they all nick themselves and let the blood dribble onto the tangle of branches. I'm very busy at first, as everyone wants to get this part over with so they can go party. I heal them as fast as they go by: goblin men, women and children, and their assorted allies. Even Thistleweft, though she grimaces in distaste—she hates it when she has to avail herself of my power—and Dogwood, though he shrieks. But he soon cheers up as the music starts and the dancing begins.

Oh, no. Music. Of course, the goblins play music all the time, but not like this. This is festival music, bright, beautiful, irresistible and utterly horrible.

Memories creep on me like a disgusting tide: stumbling off drunk with Balekin. His awful whisper. Raked across the ground. The ripping violation. I close my eyes.

No. No!

"Albia?"

I open my eyes to see Birch. Alone of all the goblins, he doesn't seem to have dressed up: his bark clothing is a little neater than usual and there's a line of gold embroidery on his shirt, but that's it. His red eyes are grave. "Are you all right, Albia?"

I nod, take a deep breath, and gesture at the Knot. As he cuts himself and gives his blood to nourish the trees, Philomel begins to complain. I swing her around in her carrier, jigging her in my arms.

I heal Birch's cut arm in a quick, businesslike flash of light. I hesitate, looking at the Knot, now stained black with blood. Taking out my steel knife, I carefully nick myself, letting my own blood splatter onto the Knot. Then, with great reluctance, I do the same to Philomel, with a copper knife. Just because she's a newborn doesn't mean she gets out of it, but it still hurts to hear her shocked, pitiful wail.

I heal her quickly and comfort her, holding my cut arm against my side. _Do you have any bandages? _I manage to sign.

"Still can't heal yourself?" But he says it kindly. He takes out a leaf from his pocket. "Here. It's a heart-tree leaf. It'll stop it getting infected."

I nod and take it from him, applying it to the cut. It adheres and seems to reduce the pain.

Birch watches. "Well!" he says at last. "You've been here a whole year now, Albia. How are you liking it?"

_I like it fine, _I say truthfully. _Here_. I hand him a sweet-jasmine flower from my hair. _In payment for the leaf._

He holds it in his claws, delicately. "Sweet-jasmine," he muses. "Whose scent induces mild euphoria. Yes. It is repayment." He tucks it in his buttonhole, where it blooms like a pale star. "Would you like to dance, Albia?" He gestures at the square, where the musicians are warming up for another number. "Thistleweft can look after Philomel."

I freeze, looking at his offered hand. I should accept. It would be so rude not to. But all I can see is Balekin. Balekin, who offered his hand so. Balekin, who danced with me a year ago. Balekin, who led me off into the dark—

Birch sighs, dropping his hand. "All right. I will take no offense." He starts to move away.

Startling even myself, I dart forward, still clutching Philomel, and tap his shoulder. He turns to me inquiringly.

_One dance_, I say and, before I can change my mind, hurry to drop Philomel off with Thistleweft, who's sitting this dance out.

I rejoin Birch in the square, and we stand ready, holding each other's hands at arm's length, and then the music begins.

All faerie music is enchanting. _Dancing_ to it is utterly intoxicating. I swoop and glide around the square with Birch, prancing around each other, stamping our feet and clapping our hands as required by the dance. A part of me is still pinned under Balekin, screaming and struggling. But another part is enjoying this. It's good to dance with Birch, who is graceful and quick and carries me through with assurance. And the music is, of course, utterly wonderful, out beneath the New Year stars and the New Year moon.

The song comes to an end, and Birch bows while I curtsy. _That was lovely, _Birch signs to me. His eyes dance.

I give a silent laugh. _And for me too. But I'd better go back to the Knot._

"Yes," he says aloud. "Lots more blood to be spilled tonight." He watches me go back to Thistleweft.

As I reach her, I brace myself for one of her glares and nasty Birch-remarks. I can't imagine she approves of me dancing with him. But instead she looks up with a small smile. "Did you have fun, Albia?" Philomel sleeps in her arms while Dogwood snoozes with his head in her lap.

I nod. _I'll take Philomel back now._

"No." She tightens her grip on my daughter. "Let me hold her. Just a little longer."

Her tone is so melancholy. She watches the dancers with strange, sad eyes. _What's the matter? _I ask in concern.

She hesitates, opening and closing her mouth. "I'll tell you," she says at last. "But later. Not here."

I have no choice but to nod and head back to the Knot. But still I watch her as she sits, rocking the babies, and watches the revel as though she'll never see anything like it again.

As soon as we're home and the babies are safe in their cradles, I turn to Thistleweft, folding my arms.

She sinks down onto the bed. She looks so weary. She rubs her forehead, between her eyes. "Albia," she says at last, "you have to promise not to tell anyone what I'm about to tell you."

I nod, placing my right hand over my heart. It thumps with urgency and foreboding.

She takes a deep breath. "How familiar are you with faerie precognition?"

_I know faeries can have premonitions, _I sign warily. _But they're unpredictable, and usually incomplete. _I cock my head. _Have you had one?_

"Yes," she says dully. "A few weeks ago. I had a premonition of my death."

Her words slam into me. I gape at her, too aghast to sign, to think.

"Sometime in this new year," she continues, voice flat, "I'm going to die. I don't know exactly when or how, but it will happen. I won't see the next New Year revel."

I find movement then, signing frantically. _No! There must be something we can do—_

"No!" Her voice raps out, so loud and vehement that Philomel stirs, snuffling, but doesn't wake. "No, there's nothing we can do," Thistleweft says in a softer tone. "Trying to avoid Fate just hastens it. You should know that."

I bow my head. I know enough stories to know that's true.

"Don't look like that," she says gently. "No faerie truly lives forever, you know. Sooner or later, something gets every one of us." I blink at this, surprised to hear my own deductions spoken aloud, so simple, so matter-of-fact. "I've lived three thousand years, and that's more than most of the Folk get. I have only one regret." She reaches out, laying a gnarled hand on Dogwood's cradle. "My son," she says sadly. "The only child I ever bore. I won't live to see him grow up."

I hurry over to her, sitting down beside her, and take her free hand. She squeezes back. Then she turns to me, face full of a new determination.

"I believe the unicorn brought you to me for many reasons, Albia," she says. "And I think this may be one. So you must promise me, Albia—promise on your heart—that you will love and care for Dogwood after my death. That you will, to the best of your ability, shield him from harm and raise him to adulthood if at all possible. Promise me this."

Her eyes are blazing, determined and pleading. Looking into those eyes, I place my right hand on my heart. Then, reaching out, I place it on hers. I nod.

She sighs in such sweet relief. "That takes a weight off my mind, Albia," she says softly. "You have no idea." Her gaze travels to Philomel. "Or maybe you do."

Yes. Maybe. But I can barely think of that past the enormity and horror of the news. Thistleweft. Dead. I can't imagine it.

We go to bed, pulling on our shifts and settling down beside each other, drawing the curtain as if this is some ordinary night. Thistleweft soon falls asleep. But I lie awake, blinking against the darkness and praying to a half-remembered God that she's wrong.

For a few months, it seems the human God may have answered my prayers.

Life goes on, full of work and baby-business and activity. I keep a sharp eye on Thistleweft, but though she's quieter than before, she keeps up her usual round: spinning in the morning, weaving in the afternoon, interspersed with housework, selling cloth and caring for Dogwood and Philomel. This may not sound like much, but, speaking as someone who's lived in terror most of her life and even now carries a deep, deadly secret, bleeding me constantly, I'm in awe of her courage. It takes more nerve and resolution to live calmly and stick to your routine under certain doom than it does to singlehandedly face down the Wild Hunt.

So life goes on. We keep up our activities, doing housework and going out to gather colors, Thistleweft spinning while I mind the babies and keep a more anxious eye out than usual. We have a few run-ins with predators and hostile fey—most seriously when a group of Unseelie kobolds try to ambush us—but I'm fast with the salt and the knife these days and we all escape unscathed, darting up the trees while our enemies scream and claw at their eyes or moan over the poisoned cuts I've given them.

"Not bad, Albia," Thistleweft says breathlessly, leaning over the treeway railing to observe the shrieking kobolds. "That poison does have its uses."

I smile, patting the pouch with its death's head butterfly warning. It seems to be working: faeries eye it fearfully and keep a safe distance—except, of course, when they're begging for my healing hands. Which is just how I like it. Let their need be tempered with respect, and their respect tempered with fear. But I don't think my salt or my reputation can keep Thistleweft safe forever.

_How can you be so calm about this? _I demand one evening while I'm nursing Philomel. My nipple slips from her mouth and she lets out a complaining howl. Hastily, I put it back in, and she sucks happily.

I stare at Thistleweft anxiously. It's all very well to be cold and calculating about faerie mortality rates when you're surrounded by faeries you'd gladly see drop dead. But I can't be impartial to Thistleweft's death. How can she be so sanguine?

"What's the point of making a fuss?" Thistleweft barely looks up from playing with Dogwood. "It'll happen whatever I do or say or feel. Why waste my last few months being frightened?"

She has a point, I suppose, but still. _Aren't you a little frightened? _I ask timidly.

She pauses. "Yes," she says at last, slowly. "But I won't let it ruin the only time I have with my son. And knowing you'll care for him when I'm gone makes me feel so much better."

I don't reply. I'm glad she trusts me, and I fully intend to fulfill that trust. But I wish she'd let me tell someone. It's awful going around with this terrible secret hanging around my neck. Especially when I meet Birch, and he always asks how Thistleweft and Dogwood are doing, and I have to smile and sign, _Fine._

Philomel finishes feeding, and I hoist her over my shoulder for a burp. While I'm patting her back, Dogwood slips out of Thistleweft's grasp and charges across the room to yank at my pant leg and try to pull the blanket off the bed. "Alby! Alby!"

Philomel coos with delight at his antics and burps up a milky stream over my shoulder. I sigh. It's overwhelming enough with _two_ mothers looking after the babies. How will I manage after…?

I bite my lip. How can I even think such a thing? How selfish can I get? Here Thistleweft is going to _die_, and all I can think about is how much work I'll be left with once she's gone. But it's hard not to, especially when Philomel begins yanking my hair and Dogwood climbs up to play with her, shrieking into my ear.

"Here, Dogwood." Thistleweft comes to scoop him up. "Stay with Mama." A shadow falls across her face at this, and she holds the oblivious Dogwood tight. "Stay here with me."

The timeless days of Faerie slip by, and nothing seems to change except Dogwood and Philomel grow bigger and stronger and more active. Thistleweft smiles to see Dogwood so vigorous and healthy. "To think he was such a sickly runt when he was born!" she says as he races by, waving a leafy stick and singing nonsense. "What a wonder you've done, Albia!"

I manage to nod and smile over containing the squirming Philomel, who admires Dogwood's game very much and wants to join in, despite being barely able to sit up. She lets out a yell, snatching at Dogwood's branch, but he yanks it away.

"No! Mine!" With his free hand, he signs out the words, as he often does. This always fascinates me: how he'll speak aloud while signing at the same time. It reassures me that he understands my sign language, even if he often behaves as if he doesn't.

"Dogwood! Behave. You have to share." Thistleweft reaches over to give him a light cuff—which causes him to wail in exaggerated agony—and snap off a piece for Philomel to play with. She gurgles happily, waving her twig.

"Those kids!" Thistleweft says, partway between amusement and exasperation. "Do you think you can manage them for a bit tomorrow, Albia?"

_Sure. Why? _I sign around Philomel awkwardly.

Thistleweft glances out the window. "It looks like there will be a good sunrise tomorrow. I want to be sure to capture some of the color. So I'll be leaving early." She shoots the babies an exasperated glance. "Hopefully these two should still be asleep. I'll try to be back soon."

I nod. I'll have to get used to looking after the kids on my own soon anyway, though a part of me still hopes that Thistleweft is wrong and nothing will happen. Please, let nothing happen. Let Thistleweft be safe.

Thistleweft sits down at her loom while I rock the babies to sleep in their cradles, and later I fall asleep myself, to the rhythmic clacking and shushing.

The next morning dawns bright and fair, sparkling through the canopy. I wake up with Thistleweft, and we get breakfast together, quietly, while the babies sleep. "Dogwood's going to need a new bed soon," Thistleweft murmurs, looking at her son's feet hanging over the end of his cradle. "Maybe you can get Birch to—" She breaks off.

I lick my lips, nerving myself up. Thistleweft and I never, ever, discuss her relationship with Birch. It's as taboo as discussing my past. It's grown to be such a rule between us that I can hardly bring myself to approach it. But if I don't ask now, I may never know. I raise my hands. _Thistleweft, what—_

"Ah! There it is!" Thistleweft retrieves her spindle triumphantly from the floor at the foot of the shelf. "Dogwood must've knocked it down. Well, I'm off. Goodbye, Albia."

_ Goodbye,_ I sign.

With a final kiss on Dogwood's brow, she heads out the ground-level door. The roses rustle aside for her.

Philomel wakes and begins fussing for a feed. I pick her up and open my shirt. She nuzzles in, and I stand by the window, watching Thistleweft walk across the clearing. Helpful of the roses, to always stay clear of the windows—

It happens so fast.

A shadow leaps from the trees. Thistleweft looks up, she screams—but it's the briefest of cries. The manticore is far too quick for her. The clawed front paws knock her down, the scorpion tail flickers, and Thistleweft's body twitches, seizing up, before subsiding. Dead.

Philomel begins to cry at Thistleweft's scream. Mindlessly, I comfort her, rocking her against my chest, while I stare out the window at the manticore. A lion with a scorpion's tail was how I always heard them described: but this is much more than that. This is a vast lion, a monster with a reddish-gold coat and claws like knives, muscles rippling under its savage hide. And its face…it's a cross between a lion's and a woman's, twisted into a mask of savagery, the eyes golden slits.

The manticore is female. That's the first, inane, stupid thought that crosses the blank void of my mind. The manticore is female. And she's just killed Thistleweft.

As though she's heard my thoughts, the manticore turns her head, in a leisurely, predatory way, to look at the cottage. For a moment, we gaze at each other through the window: me with my baby in my arms, her with my friend under her claws. I see no thought in her face, no hostility or malignance: she's just a large, powerful animal looking at something that interests her mildly.

Then, with a flick of her lion-ears, she turns away. Bending over, she scoops Thistleweft into her mighty jaws. I let out a soundless cry at the way my friend's arms flop over, helpless and limp, and her spindle falls to the ground. Then the manticore turns away and disappears into the forest, taking Thistleweft with her.

After a moment, the birds begin tentatively to sing.

We can't stay here. That's the thought that drives me through the blank numbness. We can't stay here in the cottage. I sit down to write what feels like a long, laborious note, explaining that there will be no healing or cloth selling today due to a death in the house, and attach it to the ground door. I do so very quickly, not lingering outside for a second. Then I wake Dogwood to spoon some breakfast into him.

He's cranky. "Where Mama, Alby?" he asks, blinking sleepily. "Don't want breakfast. Where Mama?"

I can't answer him. And I can't keep trying to feed him. The effort required is just too great. _Come on, _I say. _We're going to the village._

"Don't _wanna _go village." I note, with detached interest, how he sulkily and completely unconsciously signs out his complaint while speaking it. "Want _Mama._ Where Mama?"

A part of me—the part that never stopped screaming after my own mother was killed—is asking that same question. But I can't answer him. I can't break down. _Come on_, I say, and take his hand.

"No! Won't go! Want Mama!" He clings to a shelf and howls. Philomel shrieks too, face crumpling.

It's too much for me. I thump down beside Dogwood, my legs giving way. Philomel shrieks louder at the impact. I jiggle her against my shoulder, rocking back and forth, while the tears come and I shake with silent sobs. Thistleweft. Thistleweft. How can you be gone? How can you be gone and just leave me here?

Why is it always like this? Do I have to lose everyone I love?

There's the sound of footsteps overhead. "Hello?" Birch's voice calls down. "Thistleweft? Albia? What's going on down there?"

"Birch!" Dogwood calls up. He scrambles to his feet, calling up. "Birch!"

I just sob harder. Now that the tears have started, they won't stop.

"Can I come down?" Birch calls after a moment. "Thistleweft, are you in there?"

"Mama gone!" Dogwood yells.

"Gone..?" Birch shuffles. "Gone where?"

I take a deep, shuddering breath. I wipe away the tears. I can't just sit here sobbing. The children need me. Holding Philomel in my lap, I sign to Dogwood to be quiet while I get ready. He obeys, looking at me with a frightened expression. I think he's only just noticed that I'm weeping and on the verge of breakdown, and he doesn't know how to react. He sticks close, clinging to my pants, as I place Philomel in her carrier. He clings to my side as we head up the ladder.

The journey up the shaft of the Tree is surreal. How can the spinners still be here, rustling away, when their mistress is gone? How can the Tree still be standing? It seems to take forever to climb up the ladder and achieve the platform. When we emerge, the ordinariness of the day is more bizarre than ever: everything looks just the same, just as it would on a normal morning, as though the world hasn't irrevocably changed.

Birch is standing there, looking very usual except for his anxious expression. But he takes one look at my face and the anxiety melts into horror. "Thistleweft?" is all he can say, whispering.

I nod, feeling sick.

He turns away, head bowed. He stumbles a little, and steadies himself against the railing. "Thistleweft," he whispers. "Thistleweft."

"What?" Dogwood stares between us, face open and confused. "Where Mama?"

I kneel down, Philomel awkward on my back, and sign the hardest thing I've ever had to say. _I'm sorry, Dogwood. She's dead._

"Dead?" His hands sign the word in an unconscious echo. "Dead?"

I nod. _The manticore killed her this morning._

"The manticore?" Birch blinks; then shakes his head in a strange resignation. "The manticore."

That doesn't mean anything to Dogwood. I can't take my eyes off his face as the horrible news sinks in: his mother is dead. "No. No. Mama!" he shouts suddenly, loud enough to startle a flock of birds from the branches. "Mama!" He lurches for the edge.

I lunge and grab him before he can fall off. He flails for a moment, struggling against me, before going limp. His tiny body shakes with sobs. "Mama," he moans. "Mama."

I hold him tight, rocking back and forth, while he weeps, my own tears falling. There's movement beside me, and Birch reaches a tentative arm around my shoulders. For once, I don't shy away. For once, a man's touch is warmth and reassurance rather than threat.

"Hush, Dogwood," he murmurs. "It will be fine. We'll get through this. Hush, hush…" And Birch holds me and my family while we sit in the brightening morning and weep and weep.


	8. Chapter 8: Debt

Debt

As the forest lightens with dawn around us, Heartwood raises her tankard of mead. "To Thistleweft."

Everyone standing in the central square raises their own tankard. "Thistleweft," they chorus. The mead flows smoothly down my throat.

It's been three days since Thistleweft's death. The children and I have been staying with Heartwood in her large, crowded house, for the three days of seclusion following a faerie's death. "You can't stay in the cottage," Heartwood explained to me. "The Tree needs three days too, to mourn Thistleweft." I nodded, unsurprised. I always knew the Great Trees of Faerie had consciousness. And I didn't want to go back anyway, not yet. Not to a house without Thistleweft.

Now I stand in a borrowed black mourning shawl, toasting Thistleweft in a crowd of goblins. The size of the crowd surprises me: I wouldn't have thought so many goblins would turn out for a hob who wasn't a member of the tribe, had no relatives, and wasn't particularly friendly. But a faerie's death is quite an event, even in these dangerous wilds, and, as Heartwood told me, she lived among them a long time. Even the twins are here, unusually solemn.

The children and I are chief mourners, of course. Philomel is too young to understand, but Dogwood's been very miserable and clingy. I've tried to spend as much time with him as possible over these last three days. The bewilderment in his eyes is heartbreaking. He's woken up crying these past three nights, and keeps asking for Thistleweft. I've rocked him and assured him of my love, signed through stories with him. I wish so much there was something I could do to make it right.

Now he clings to my leg, watching it all with wide eyes. Birch stands nearby, leaning against the platform railing while he surreptitiously sips his mead between the three toasts we're giving Thistleweft. I don't think he means to be rude: in his eyes is a terrible shadowed blankness, and he sips mindlessly, on reflex.

At last we finish the final toast and then toss the remains of our mead over the railing to the forest floor. Liquid splashes down among the branches.

"May Thistleweft find peace in the Land of Promise, where all faeries began and where we are all destined to return," Heartwood says into the silence. She kneels down to touch Dogwood's forehead. "Blessings." She touches my forehead, fingers warm and dry. "Blessings." She touches Philomel. "Blessings."

"Blessings," the other faeries chorus, and then most of them start moving off. They've paid all the respect that's owed to a hob weaver who wasn't part of their tribe. Now it's time to get back to work.

Birch stays. He tossed out most of his mead along with everyone else, but he goes over to the rain barrel to scoop up another tankard full of water. He drinks, staring silently out at nothing.

Heartwood pours me another tankard of mead; I can have as much as I want today. She also bends down to give Dogwood some maple sugar candy, which he eats with enthusiasm. "She left you the cottage, Albia," she says, voice both weary and practical. "Before she died, she came and told me that the cottage, and everything in it, were to be left to you, for the rest of your life."

I nod, but feel a stir of anger: why didn't Thistleweft tell me she'd told Heartwood of her premonition? It would have been a lot easier to carry the secret if I'd known. I drink more mead, drowning out the anger. There's no point to it now.

"I understand she also left you custody of Dogwood?" Heartwood continues.

I nod, and put my hand on Dogwood's head. He looks up and nods too. "Wanna stay Alby."

"And so you will," Heartwood smiles down at him. She turns back to me. "Thistleweft may have left you the cottage, Albia," she says seriously, "but you really ought to think about moving into the village proper. It'd be a lot safer than living out there on your own."

I give a little curtsy, but shake my head. Heartwood may be right, but leaving the cottage just feels wrong. I lived in that Tree for over a year. It's home. And I don't care to break faith with a Great Tree.

"Well, give it some thought," Heartwood says. "Don't make any decisions now." She sighs and looks out over the forest canopy. Dawn glows more strongly now, sending gold and green sparkles through the leaves. Dogwood begins to play, jumping on the shifting patches of light on the platform. I'm a bit consoled, seeing him play normally. Maybe he'll get through this.

"You're the only one she ever let in, you know," Heartwood says suddenly. I look at her. "Three hundred years she lived in that cottage," she explains, "and you were the only person, mortal or faerie, she ever allowed inside."

I stare. I know Thistleweft didn't care for guests, and certainly never let anyone in during my time with her, but I didn't realize that I was the _only_ one, ever_._ Heartwood nods at my surprise. "Oh, yes. You were exceptional, Albia. In more ways than one." She sips more mead; I notice she's poured more for herself as well. My mouth twitches in a smile. "She never made many friends," Heartwood continues. She gives a wry smile. "Of course, that was just Thistleweft. But, really, I think being a slave damaged her badly."

Now I really can't hide my surprise. _Thistleweft was a slave?_

"She never told you?" Heartwood turns sad red eyes on me.

I shake my head.

"Well, I can't say I'm surprised." Heartwood shrugs. "She never really told _me_: it's just what I've pieced together, over the centuries. But before she came here to the valley, Thistleweft was a slave in an Unseelie Court. Oh, the king had her working under some so-called contract—but, really, she was a slave. They treated her badly."

I nod slowly. Actual, hardcore, you-are-my-property slavery is technically impossible in Faerie—the immutable laws of debt and recompense prevent it—but there are all sorts of ways to trick a mortal or, more rarely, a faerie, into a coercive situation where they work for no meaningful reward, endure abuse, and have no way out. I feel a shiver of shame—for I never gave much thought to Thistleweft's life, in all the months I lived with her—even as new understanding dawns. No wonder she took me in, was so kind to me. She recognized herself in me: a wounded woman, fleeing a great evil in her past.

"When you first arrived here," Heartwood confirms my thoughts, "you reminded me a lot of Thistleweft when she first came. Something broken in your eyes, flinching away from everyone. She was like that. I don't know how she escaped her contract, but I doubt it was easy for her. It was a long time before she was able to interact. And she didn't really make any friends until you came."

A wash of shame and sorrow swamps me. How little I knew Thistleweft, who was kinder to me, and more of a friend, than all the Court faeries combined. More than my own sisters, even—and I never even told her my real name. I look at her son skipping among the shadows and light, watched dully by Birch. I never learned what was going on between him and Thistleweft. I never even asked about Dogwood's father. And I'll never be able to ask Thistleweft now.

I take another swallow. To you, Thistleweft.

It's even harder than I expected to adjust to life without Thistleweft.

When we get home, the change is immediately obvious. The Tree stands unnaturally still in this gusty day, long boughs drooping. It's so strange to usher the kids into the knothole by myself, without Thistleweft. Then, descending the ladder, we find that the spinners are gone. All the spiders, vanished, leaving barely a trace of web behind.

Dogwood pauses on the rungs. "Alby?" he says. "Where spiders go?"

I can't answer him while holding onto the ladder, but when we get to the floor, I sign, _They probably left when they realized Thistleweft was dead. No point staying. _I shiver. I never much liked the giant spiders, but their departure is an undeniable admission: Thistleweft is gone, and never coming back.

Dogwood's face crumbles. "Now _we _leave?"

Okay, didn't expect that one. _No._ I take him in my arms, his tiny form shuddering. _She left us the house. We can stay._

Yes, we can stay: stay in this house where the cook pot remains where she put it down, where her half-finished cloth-of-twilight still hangs on the loom, where the pillow is still imprinted with her head. Everything I see reminds me of my friend, and the fact that she's gone.

But it's not the grief that's the worst.

The responsibility is terrible, too. Suddenly there's no one for me to rely on: everything falls on me. Both children are entirely dependent on me now, and Dogwood is still stricken with grief. Every minute there's a child needing my attention, whether it's one of Dogwood's crying fits or Philomel wailing for food or Dogwood screaming at me not to leave or Philomel's diaper—just every minute, something. Not only that, but my patients start arriving again soon: faeries with injuries, mothers with weak and sickly children, all wanting the Lady Healer's touch. That's not so bad—at least healing is quick and easy—but I have to tell the story of Thistleweft's death over and over.

But that's not the worst either.

More annoying are Thistleweft's old customers, forest faeries showing up to buy cloth. At first I try to sell them her stored fabric—we have shelves full of it—but a few too many of her customers think they can cheat me. After the third faerie tries to trick me into giving her all of Thistleweft's stock (and even trying, impossibly, to weave on my own, with disastrous penalties should I fail, as I inevitably would), I hang a sign outside the house: _Healing Only. No More Cloth Sales._ Thistleweft's old customers scowl and grumble to see it, but they're hushed by my patients: "Quiet! Do you want her to stop healing us?" It gives me a small pinch of smug pleasure as I set to work.

To put the seal on it (and because we could use the extra room), I sell Thistleweft's loom, though Dogwood's eyes are wide and it feels like a small betrayal. I avoid his accusing gaze as he clutches Thistleweft's spindle and stares while I dismantle the loom and carry it outside to the waiting hob.

She takes the loom with alacrity—hobs need to weave, to work with cloth, it's in their nature. She must have been suffering without her own machine. "Do you think I could have that spindle too? I'll pay extra."

Dogwood clutches it harder. I step in front of him, shaking my head. _It's all that's left of his mother. _I write it on a miniature notepad the twins brought me from Ironside.

"Ah, well." She shrugs philosophically and give me my payment for the loom.

It's a never-empty vessel: a plain-looking wooden bucket that will never empty of anything we put in it, ever, no matter how much we use. I fill it with clean, pure water. Now we no longer need to fetch water from the river, and we can wash as much as we like, with me throwing buckets on both children as they splash and shriek. Still I feel bad, especially when I meet Dogwood's gaze or see the blank space where the loom should be.

But that's not the worst either.

_Birch, _I say, next time he comes around, _could you do something for me?_

"What?" he asks calmly, bouncing the giggling Philomel on his knee. He comes nearly every day, usually in the afternoon, and I feel such gratitude for him. He brings us food and tools and looks after the children, allowing me to get other things done or have a rest. He's been a life saver, as Thistleweft says I was for her, even if he still won't say why, or tell me about the mysterious debt he still says he owes me.

_My poisons, _I say. _I don't like having them outside. But I can't keep them where the children will find them. Could you make me a secure place for them indoors?_

He does look up at this, red eyes steady and measuring. "Are you inviting me into the house?"

"House! House!" laughs Philomel. She's starting to talk now, parroting words while she tosses her silky white hair. I smile at her cleverness: she's already learned to say, "Mama!" and "Now!" She even signs while she talks, the way Dogwood does.

_Yes_, I say, somewhat hesitantly. It feels like a strange betrayal: Thistleweft never let anyone in, and she would have had apoplexy if I let in Birch, of all people. But he has to enter the cottage if he's going to make me what I have in mind. _I'll pay you, of course. What do you think would be fair repayment?_

"No payment." He stands up, cradling Philomel. "It will be part of my own payment of my debt. What would you like me to make?"

I raise an eyebrow—just what _is _this debt?—but go to the knothole, Dogwood at my heels, still carrying the spindle. Birch follows us down the ladder, still carrying Philomel.

Once inside, she starts fussing and reaches for me, crawling across Birch's chest, waving her arms. I take her, tucking her close, while watching Birch. His red eyes travel around the room, taking in our pots and pans, our cooking rock, our books, the bed-shelf with its curtain and trailing blankets. He looks so strange standing there. My heart gives an odd pound, and I have to swallow back a moment's irrational panic. Stop it. He's not going to try anything.

Dogwood sidles up to me. "Alby? Is Birch allowed?" He clutches the spindle, staring up at me anxiously.

_He's allowed if I say he is, _I say, as much for my own reassurance as his. _I never liked having the poisons outside_, I say to Birch. _But I can't leave them where the children can get at them. Dogwood's starting to climb already. _I woke up this morning to find him clambering up the shelves like a squirrel, watched by a giggling Philomel. _Could you make a secure compartment for them, that they couldn't get into?_

Philomel grabs a handful of my hair, yanking painfully. I pull it out of her grasp. "Mommy!" she complains, signing the word: _Mommy!_

Birch doesn't answer immediately. He paces around, running his hands over the walls, the shelves. Feeling out the Tree. I watch him, torn between fascination and an irrational desire to yank him away.

"I think so," he murmurs at last. "I've never worked with a Great Tree before. But…maybe…This one's friendly to you, at least." He turns back to me. "I'll give it a try, but no promises." He looks around. "Where do you want this compartment, exactly?"

I've already thought of this. I point upward, to a shelf about a quarter of the way up the Tree, next to the ladder. He nods. "Stand back."

I back up, pulling Dogwood with me. He watches, wide-eyed, clutching the spindle. Even Philomel is quiet, looking at Birch curiously while she sucks her thumb.

Birch climbs the ladder, tail trailing behind him, and swings himself out easily among the shelving. Clinging on with his claws, spread-eagled, he holds still a moment, seeming to delve deeper into the Tree, a silent communion. Then he begins to sing.

Woodworking songs are strange, even by faerie standards. It sounds more like the wind through branches than regular music: Birch's voice swishes and soughs, working intricate tunes that I can't quite follow, can't quite ignore. He whistles, he hums, he sighs. And, slowly, the Tree begins to respond.

The wood expands: slowly at first, but then faster, melting under Birch's song, flowing across an empty shelf like treacle. Dogwood lets out a cry of awe, and I shush him hastily, still watching, as the wood closes over the shelf like a lid. Soon there's no sign that there was any shelf there at all, but only a smooth expanse of wood, like a closed eye.

"Wow, Uncle Birch!" Dogwood cheers, and Philomel waves her hands.

Birch turns to me. "Can you come up here, Albia?" He holds out his hand to me. "I'll need you to finish this."

Fighting a strange reluctance, I set Philomel on the floor (she immediately starts playing with some fallen cushions) and climb the ladder up beside Birch. Dogwood hovers at the ladder's end, saying, "Let me see, let me see!"

Birch and I both ignore him. Up close, he looks tired, more so than I would have expected; I suppose a woodworking song on a Great Tree is hard work. His wild scent—pine and musk—rises off him; so close, I can almost feel his breath. A strange sensation goes through me: something that's almost pleasurable, but that sends bolts of panic through me.

"Place your palm here," he says, and reaches over to take my left wrist.

His hand is warm and tough. It's rough with callouses, hard with muscle. The back of it is lightly dusted with fur, and his dark claws are clean and shiny and elegant. He places my hand against the wood, covering it with his, and I have to gulp back gasps. That sensation is thrilling through me now, making my stomach roil, my breath come fast. The scene blurs in and out of focus.

Birch begins singing again, and I fight to stay focused. His song is horribly distracting, and it's bringing back memories, memories of—

The magic shivers through the living wood, and the wooden cover shrinks away, withdrawing like an eyelid, revealing the hidden shelf.

"Wow!" Dogwood, unbeknownst to us, has climbed up the wall and is clinging to a lower shelf, watching.

I grimace at him, but honestly, I'm grateful for the interruption. It's a distraction from the memories, the horrible, caressing sensations rising through me at the touch of Birch's hand, his arm on mine, his breath—

"And now place your hand on the wall above the shelf." If Birch has noticed that I'm hyperventilating, he doesn't show it.

I do so, reaching up. It's difficult: my hand seems very heavy. Birch repeats the hand-covering and song. The wood flows back, covering the shelf completely. Within seconds, there's a seamless cover, with no way in or out.

"It'll only work for you now, Albia," Birch says. His voice sounds strange, echoing across a great distance. "Only you can open or close this compartment. I've gotten the Tree straight on that, I think…Though I never worked with such a strong, old one before." He gives the Tree a bemused, wondering look. "A singer far greater than I first sang this cottage into being."

I can barely hear him through the ringing in my ears. The scene is blurred, obscured by, by—

_—Leaves in my hair, rasped against the ground, the weight of Balekin, stabbing deep inside, the tearing, the pumping, his spikes in my skin, Balekin's grunts and triumphant growl as he comes inside me—_

"Albia!" Birch's voice echoes across a depthless chasm, and I barely hear Dogwood's dismayed cry as dizziness overwhelms me and everything goes black.

When I open my eyes, I'm lying on the bed. For a bemused instant, I can't think how I got there. Then I remember what happened, and sit up so quickly I get dizzy. I fall back, bed nook spinning before my eyes.

"You fainted, Alby." Dogwood pops up beside the bed. He peers at me anxiously. "You okay?"

"Yes." Birch steps up, holding a worried-looking Philomel on his hip. "Are you all right?"

I nod shakily, sitting up more slowly. I take Dogwood into my lap. He cuddles up there, and I hold him close, taking comfort from his small, compact form, his child-scent.

Birch still hovers close, holding Philomel. I'm afraid to ask, but I have to. _What happened?_

"You came over queer," he says. "Got a strange look on your face. Then you fainted. I caught you before you fell, though, and brought you down. You were only unconscious a few minutes." Philomel's making determined efforts to get to me, cooing and waving her arms, and he places her on the bed. "Albia, what's wrong? Do you know why you fainted?"

I gather up Philomel and hold both my children in my arms, cuddling close. I avoid Birch's gaze. I know exactly why I fainted. But I literally can't tell him.

_I'm sorry_, is all I can say, signing awkwardly around the children.

He lets out a small, exasperated sigh. "I wish you'd just _tell_ me, Albia."

"Tell what?" Dogwood looks up, more anxious than ever.

I just shake my head, tears coming to my eyes. For this is the absolute worst thing since Thistleweft's death, what's been haunting me since the funeral: the memories are returning, and the nightmares. Balekin has started haunting me once again, invading every moment. And now he's come between me and Birch.

Birch lets out another sigh, one of resignation. "Never mind, Dogwood." He turns away, back to the ladder. "That compartment should hold," he says coolly. "It won't open to anyone but you. And I meant it," he adds, looking back over his shoulder at me. "You don't owe me for this, Albia. It's payment for my debt."

And then he's gone, up the ladder and away.

Somehow, I cook dinner. Somehow, I get the children to bed, even Dogwood with his fearful questions, his clinging hands and pleading eyes. I wait until they're asleep. Then I collapse onto the bench, head in hands.

This can't go on. I've had horrific nightmares every night for weeks now: running through thickets of thorns with Balekin in pursuit. Balekin slipping into the cottage at night, attacking my children. Balekin _eating _me: gobbling me from my feet upward, mouth slick with my blood, eating and eating but never getting to the end of me. Not only that, but I can feel him oozing around my every thought, every day. Everything I do—even when I'm playing with the children, or dealing with patients, or asking Birch for a covered shelf—is all like a shallow play, against the backdrop of _that._ The assault. The _rape_. It's there, every second. There is no moment when I'm not thinking about it anymore. I can't sleep, I can't eat, and I'm so tired, every minute, plagued by strange aches and pains, mind full of horrors, muscles weak, just when I need to be strong.

And now it's led to _this_: a humiliating rift between me and one of my only friends, right when he's done me a huge favor.

What's wrong with me? Why is the rape coming back to haunt me _now_, after two years? I wasn't like this when Thistleweft was alive—

I freeze. Of course. Thistleweft. With her dead, I don't feel safe anymore. I'm vulnerable again—and prey to my memories.

I shudder, burying my face deeper in my hands. What can I do? I can't keep on like this: not only is it damaging my relationship with Birch, but I've got two children to care for. They need me. They need me strong.

_Strong_. My mouth twists. What a loaded word. Bitterly, I recall Madoc and Jude and their shared obsession with "strength". Like you could "be strong" just like that. Like it was all a matter of willpower, and if you were miserable or fragile or incapable, then you must be "weak" and it was all your fault. I can just imagine the counsel they would likely give me in this situation:

_Be strong_, says Madoc in my mind. _Have I taught you nothing? Take your rage and your pain, and forge them into a weapon you can use against your enemy._

_Don't be a weakling, Taryn, _sneers Jude. _Do you want Balekin to win? Just ignore the pain. If you're strong enough, it'll go away. Now, I've got sword practice to go to._

I roll my eyes. Wow, great advice. How exactly am I supposed to "forge my rage into a weapon against my enemy" when my enemy is a world away and beyond my power besides? And, yes, Madoc, I'd say you taught me _precisely _nothing. Nothing useful, anyway. I haven't used a single one of the skills my stepfather considered so essential since I left Court, except how to handle knives properly.

As for you, Jude, I've been _trying _to ignore my emotions. It's not working. It didn't work last time either, if we're being honest. All it did then was send me spiraling into a depression. Ignoring my feelings made me weaker, not stronger. And I can't afford that right now. Not because I want to defeat Balekin, but because I have two babies who need me. That's something Jude and Madoc would never understand: that there might be more important things in life than _winning_.

What advice would Oriana give?

_Sit down,_ my stepmother's voice says in my head. _Sit down, take a deep breath, and think._

I take a deep breath and settle back on the bench. I rake my fingers through my hair, letting out my breath in a long sigh. And I begin to apply logic to the problem, as Oriana would.

Ignoring my emotions does no good. Neither does simmering in rage and plotting a revenge that will never come to pass. So what's left?

I wish I _could _explain it all to Birch. Even if he can't help me. At least then he'd _understand._ But the curse won't let me let anyone know, by word or deed—

I freeze. Something about that phrase has caught my attention.

Let anyone _know_. But one person already does know. Me.

Maybe I can't tell anyone else, by word or deed. But Balekin didn't say I could never _express _what happened. If no one ever sees but me…

I remember, back at Court, an enchanted human painter. He stood before a blank wall, painting like fury. Literally: rage was in every brushstroke. The wall was enchanted, too, for the paint to fade away: the faster he painted, the more his work disappeared. And his contract was such that he couldn't leave until he'd finished painting the wall. The watching faeries tittered while he painted, sneering at his predicament, and only occasionally did they notice _what _he painted.

He painted pictures of _them. _Images of faeries burning alive in an unspeakable holocaust. Faeries in chains, writhing and screaming while the painted flames ate their flesh to the bone. That human was powerless and could never get free. But still, he expressed his contempt for his captors, in a way that no faerie, devoid of imagination or creativity, ever could. He painted his rage.

I'm not a painter. But maybe I too can express my rage.

Moving silently, I climb up the shelves, retrieving a length of black cloth, and an embroidery kit a hob gave me in exchange for healing her hands of iron poisoning. It's a beautifully complete kit: a basket lined with embroidery silks all the colors of the rainbow, with a pincushion, needles and pins, scissors and several embroidery frames of different sizes.

My scissors flash as I cut out a large square of black fabric. I fit it into one of the embroidery frames.

No one else is ever going to see this. I tell that to the curse, as hard as I can. No one else. Only I will ever set eyes on this. I'm not telling anyone.

I sit down on the bench, under the lamp. No one else will ever see this. I repeat that, over and over, as I select my first color and thread it onto the needle. Only me. I'm not telling anyone.

Taking a deep breath, I pierce my needle into the cloth and pull the thread through. I'm braced for the curse to cut in, to stop my hands. But nothing happens as I set the first stitch and then start the next.

I keep sewing. The curse doesn't stop me. With a feeling of incredulity—a dawning sense of dizzying _freedom_—I continue. Stitch after stich I set, and the picture grows beneath my needle: a girl. A girl with red-brown hair, in a blue dress. A girl being led forward by a half-finished male figure.

Me. And Balekin, only half-complete.

I want to continue, but I'm dizzy with exhaustion now. I put my new project back in the basket, and climb up to hide it in the new compartment. The wood seals over at my touch: no one will ever see this. No one but me.

I climb into bed, and, for the first time since Thistleweft's death, sleep without nightmares.

After that, I work on my project every night. I wait until the children have gone to sleep before climbing to the compartment and fetching down the tapestry. I work quickly and quietly, sitting on the bench, in the light of the lamp, while the children sleep. I complete the first depiction without the curse stopping me. Balekin, leading me away from the ball. Then I start work on the next scene.

The emotions this stirs up are terrible. Sometimes I can only set a few stitches before having to put it away, eyes stinging with tears, to tremble and moan silently before putting my project away and getting into bed. But again and again I go back to my tapestry, unable to control my compulsion.

Amazingly, it seems to work. Now I can go for whole hours at a stretch without thinking about Balekin or the assault. Just as long I let myself drown in my emotions, wallow in my memories, every night, while I leach out the poison, stitching it into fabric. My nightmares don't cease all at once, but they become less frequent, less horrific. The strange weakness that plagued me since Thistleweft's death dissipates, and I find I have an appetite again. The odd pains vanish too. I'm stronger, and I find I can focus once again, whether I'm playing with my children or treating patients or sitting talking with Heartwood in the village square.

I'm not well. Not by any means. Sometimes still the memories catch me, pulling at my limbs, sucking at my soul. Sometimes I just have to sit down, squeeze my eyes shut, under a great black wave of pain. But with my tapestry, at least I can manage my affairs. I can conduct the business of my life. If I let my emotions out—if I face my feelings instead of pretending that they don't exist—I can keep going.

"You look a little better," Birch says the next time he stops by.

I look up from playing with Philomel, and I know my face is crimson. I haven't forgotten that humiliating episode in the cottage, and I doubt he has either. I watch him apprehensively, but he doesn't seem angry. Dogwood toddles up to him with a glad cry, and he hugs him briefly.

"Uncle Birch! Uncle Birch!" cries my son.

Philomel waves her arms in my lap. "Birch! Birch!"

"Hello, kids." Birch gives Dogwood another squeeze. "I hear you're almost totally pot-trained now, my boy."

"Yeah!" Dogwood nods happily, climbing up Birch's leg like a squirrel to settle in his arms. "I use pot!" He signs the words out, too, like he always does, and laughs.

_He does, too, _I confirm. _And he talks so well now! If he started using magic, he'd be a real genius._

Birch's smile dies. "He hasn't started using magic yet?"

I shake my head. Dogwood, oblivious, scampers around Birch's shoulders, humming a song and chortling.

"That's odd," Birch frowns. "He should have started, at his age." He pulls Dogwood off his shoulders and sets him on the platform.

I shrug. I'm not that bothered, to be honest. When you're a lone human looking after two faerie children, the last thing you want is those children to start casting spells. It's bad enough now that Dogwood is climbing everything. Like right now—I let out a silent yelp and, hastily putting Philomel down, leap up to grab Dogwood before he plummets off the railing to the forest floor.

"Dogwood!" Birch scolds. "You could have been killed! You should put him on a leash or something," he adds to me.

"I _am _on a leash, inside," Dogwood whines. "All the time!"

Birch looks at me. "Really?"

I nod, a bit guiltily. _I have to, or he climbs right out of the house. _I wove Dogwood a harness with a long leash, which I keep tied to one of the floor-hooks Thistleweft used for her loom. He can range around, but he can't climb up too high, and I've moved all the breakables out of his range. He's thrown a few epic tantrums about it, but it's worth it, to prevent him escaping.

"Hmm." Birch lifts Dogwood up. "You shouldn't do that, okay? Don't climb all over and make your foster mother worry."

"_You _climb," Dogwood points out sulkily. "All the time."

"I climb _trees_. I don't climb shelves, and knock things over, and try to escape the house—" Birch breaks off, staring past me. Dogwood stares too, eyes wide.

_What— _I turn around too, and my hands fall.

It's Philomel. Year-old Philomel, sitting up, with several fallen leaves floating in the air around her. They glow gold—literally _glow_. My daughter's face is golden in their light, her unicorn hair shimmering. She laughs and claps her hands, and they dance around her, swirling gracefully in the air, into a crown around her head.

We all stare, me and Birch and Dogwood. For this is Philomel's very first act of magic. The first spell she has ever cast. And she has done it before she can even walk.

Philomel crawls over, the leaves still dancing around her like shimmering attendants. She hauls herself up, holding onto my leg, and smiles up at me. "Mommy," she lisps.

Tears sting my eyes, and I don't know if they're tears of pride or fear. _Well done, Philomel._

"Yes," agrees Birch, recovering. "That's amazing."

I glance at Dogwood, half-expecting scowls or jealousy, but he's laughing too. "Yay Melly!" he cheers from Birch's arms.

Philomel smiles proudly and holds up her arms to me imperiously. I bend over to pick her up. The leaves dance around us, glittering and gleaming in the light. She's held them up for so long now. I cuddle Philomel close, against my shoulder so she can't see my face. I'm so proud of her in this moment—and so afraid. My daughter has discovered her magic so early. It's likely to be strong magic, too. The kind that gets noticed. Balekin swirls through my thoughts, an evil ghost.

What does this mean for Philomel's future? How do I keep her safe now?

Maybe it's my worry that wakes me up so early the next day. I lie awake for what seems like hours, half-wishing one of the children would wake up and bawl, just so I have an excuse to light the lamp and do something.

Philomel let the leaves fall eventually and didn't perform any further magic yesterday, but it's only a matter of time before she tries another experiment. And it won't always be something as pretty and innocuous as dancing leaves. Not to mention that early magic is traditionally a sign of powerful magic—and that attracts notice, even out here in the sticks. What does this mean for Philomel's future?

And there's Dogwood to consider, too. Birch seems to think his lack of magical awakening is something to worry about. Is he right? Is there something wrong with my son?

I sit up, head still aching with exhaustion. This won't do. Worrying won't solve anything. If I can't get to sleep, I may as well use the time to some purpose. I'll work on my tapestry. I wrinkle my nose at a whiff of excrement. Maybe I'll take the pot out while I'm at it.

Still in my sleeping shift, I take the pot from its covered shelf and head outside, the roses parting for me. The forest is just starting to lighten with dawn, and the birds are singing the dawn chorus: a bright, cheerful choir. A gray twilight filters down through the canopy. The tree trunks look like the submerged stalks of underwater plants; the ferns arch like seaweed. Everywhere is shadow and blue somber light, but the morning is brightening, degree by degree.

I head around the rose bushes to the side of the house with no windows, where we always pour out waste. I dump out the pot's contents. It smells awful, but I know the Tree and the roses will sop it up. It's all part of our relationship: in exchange for shelter and protection, we give them nutrients. Symbiosis. I smile, enjoying the word—and freeze.

It's too quiet suddenly. The dawn chorus has gone silent. Even the trees are still. It's like the forest is holding its breath for fear.

I reach for my knife and salt—and find nothing. Of course—they're back inside. Like a fool, I went outside unarmed. Heart pounding, I take a deep breath and, forcing myself to move slowly, start to head back around the house to the entrance. Calm, calm. I'm only a few steps—

The gleam of red-gold eyes. A gigantic paw, fringed with claws, stepping out of the shadows. A face that is both a woman's and a lioness's. I stand, frozen and helpless, as the manticore paces into the clearing, huge and terrible.

This is it, I think, strangely calm. After everything I've been through, this is how I'm going to die. I'm going to die exactly like Thistleweft did. I hope Birch comes by early today and finds my children before they get too hungry…Tears trickle down my face. _My children_.

The manticore paces further into the clearing. I brace myself, waiting.

The manticore's great stinger descends, and I flinch, the pot falling to the ground through my nerveless fingers. But she lowers her tail slowly, carefully, and the venomous point doesn't pounce. Instead, the manticore just holds her stinger still, hovering before me.

I stare blindly. The manticore makes a soft, whining noise, and twitches her stinger gently. Please. Pay attention. Look at this.

I force myself to focus. The stinger is ugly, a great bulbous ball at the end of the manticore's segmented tail. It's also been wounded. A long, horrible slash breaks across the shiny surface, oozing vile fluid. The flesh around it is red, cracked and enflamed.

My mind races. This looks very much like an iron-poisoned wound, though I didn't think the manticore ever went hunting Ironside. Still, perhaps she encountered a human knight associated with a Court, who had a death metal weapon—or even ran into that rare faerie who carries cold iron. I marvel; whoever she tried to attack got very lucky.

The manticore makes a soft, plaintive noise. Up close, in the growing light, I can see that she's not in good shape. Her coat is ragged, her ribs showing. Her human-lion face is strained, and her eyes stare pleadingly into mine. _Please_, she seems to say in that same silent, wordless way of the unicorn. _Help me._

I hesitate. Why should I help the manticore? She's a monster, a terror of this forest. She took Thistleweft from me. My friend and mistress and protector. Dogwood's mother. She killed and ate Thistleweft, leaving me bereft and Dogwood orphaned.

The manticore makes another miserable noise. More awful fluid leaks out of the wound, trickling across the stinger.

I look at her again. That ragged coat, those bones. She hasn't been able to hunt with this wound, and she must be starving. The manticore may be a monster, but she's also a creature in pain. A creature in need. And if she killed Thistleweft and hurt me, she didn't do it out of some twisted, perverse notion of honor, like Madoc. Nor for the bullying fun of it, like the Court faeries. And certainly not from malice and evil lust, like Balekin.

No, the manticore killed and ate my friend because that's her nature. She's an ambush predator. So why be surprised when she acts like one? Why be angry? She's an innocent beast. And she needs my help.

Slowly, careful not to make any sudden moves, I raise my hands and place them gently on her stinger. The carapace is smooth beneath my fingers, and flushed with an unhealthy heat. The wound's been infected for sure. I summon my power, the unicorn's gift, and the white light flashes. The carapace moves slightly under my hands as the wound's lips seal closed, erased without a scar or trace, in an instant.

The manticore lets out a long sigh of relief. She lifts her tail, stinger soaring up into the air, and I back away, fear crowding back into my throat. The manticore doesn't need me anymore—and, as I noted earlier, she's an innocent beast. A hungry beast. What's to stop her attacking me now?

The roses part for me in a rustle, and I place my hand on the Tree's trunk. There—I'm touching it, so I'm under its protection. The manticore can't attack me now. But still I watch her apprehensively.

She makes no move to attack. Instead, she looks at me for a long moment before bending her front legs and lowering her head in an unmistakable bow. The manticore. Bowing to me.

Straightening, she looks into my eyes. Already she looks stronger, healthier, the strain leaving her face, her muscles rippling back to life. Slowly, communication trickles from her mind into mine.

_Use your trueborn voice to call on me_, she says, _and I will come, whatever the distance, and do your bidding, just once, before I leave in peace._

I gape at her, too astonished to parse this through. Then, when she continues to stare at me expectantly, I give my own, hasty bow of acknowledgement.

This seems to satisfy her. She gives a lovely long stretch, pushing her forelegs out and pulling her spine, tail going almost straight, before she bounces back to her feet. Turning, she paces away without a backward glance, disappearing into the forest.

Slowly, the birds begin to sing again.

When I can move, I walk over and bend down to pick up the earthenware pot. It's smooth and heavy in my hands. Its ordinariness, its solidity, are wonderful. It makes me feel grounded, when all my thoughts are whirling and I'm still shaking from the encounter. Slowly, I make my way back to the ground-level door and sink down onto the lintel. My legs won't hold me any longer.

_Use your trueborn voice to call on me_, _and I will come, whatever the distance, and do your bidding, just once, before I leave in peace._

I guess Faerie's laws of repayment apply to manticores too. _I will do your bidding_…The manticore gave me a favor, in return for saving her life. A debt, to be called in later, with my _trueborn voice. _I guess that means I have to use my real voice to call in the manticore's debt. If I want her to do my bidding, just that once, before she leaves without violence, then I have to call for her aloud.

My mouth twists. Typical faerie favor: the possibility of great rewards, just out of reach. I'm never getting my true voice back. Nothing and nobody can remove Balekin's curse. I'll be mute until the day I die, and the manticore's debt will go unpaid.

Some repayment. Still, there's a certain amount of relief. After all, do I really want to see the manticore again?

Behind the closed door, I hear Philomel start to wail, soon joined by Dogwood. Breathing a sigh of relief, I stand up and go inside, to start what I profoundly hope will be an ordinary day.


	9. Chapter 9: Heirs

**(Note: This chapter contains lines from the song "I Just Can't Wait to be King" from Walt Disney Studio's 1994 movie **_**The Lion King**_**.)**

Heirs

I tell no one, not even Birch, about the manticore, and, as time goes by, I half-forget about the whole encounter. After all, I'm surviving in a dangerous forest, playing healer to dozens if not hundreds of faeries, and, most of all, raising two kids. Enough to distract anyone from manticores, even if Philomel's powers weren't developing, which they are.

Philomel's command of magic grows by the day. Soon she's not just wafting leaves around; she's making toys zoom across the cottage to her cradle, where she grabs them, gurgling with triumph, out of the air. She makes so many utensils fly that I start attaching chips of iron or steel onto all the heavy things, immunizing them to magic (Philomel's shrieking tantrum about this lasts the better part of two hours). She makes twigs grow legs and laughs to watch them dance. Constantly she works magic, seemingly without effort.

"Good Melly! Good girl!" cries Bettina the nixie one hot, sunny day as Philomel uses magic to zoom herself across the water like a boat, cutting a wake behind her. "You must be very proud," Bettina adds to me.

I nod breathlessly, surging across the pool after Philomel. Nixies are dangerous, but I'm not worried about swimming with Bettina. I saved the life of the chief nixie's daughter last year, curing her of her natal weakness and deformity, just as I did for Dogwood. In exchange, the chief gave me the freedom of the river: my children and I can swim or take fish with perfect safety anywhere above the waterfall that pours into the lake, and none of the water fey will harm us. Not that that stops the occasional mean-spirited prank—I've been held underwater for almost a minute more than once—but Bettina's all right, and she adores the kids.

"Mommy!" Philomel zooms to my arms, cuddling into my wet embrace. Her hair, darkened by water, clings to her tiny face. She glows rosy and healthy from swimming.

I smile and kiss her. I keep waiting for the moment when she uses magic on me, either by accident or on purpose. But it hasn't come yet. Maybe she knows not to hurt her mother.

Bettina wades across the river pool, hauling Dogwood after her. He laughs and kicks happily, sending up a white spume of water. "Faster! Faster!" He's getting so big: already he has a tiny crest of quills, reddening at the tips, though his ankles don't rotate like a purebred goblin's, and he has no tail. I sigh, the familiar worry gnawing me: while Philomel plays games with magic, he has yet to show the slightest sign of magical ability. What if something's wrong?

In any case, he's happy today. Bettina leans against a sun-warmed rock, letting Dogwood splash. Philomel agitates to join him in the water, and I hold onto her wrists, letting her float near him. "They're both such beautiful children," Bettina congratulates me. "And Philomel's so talented! I bet if your husband knew, he'd be sorry he kicked you out."

I shrug, manufacturing an appropriately woeful expression. I've done nothing to encourage the theory that's grown around my sudden appearance in the valley, and Philomel's paternity—I just haven't contradicted it. The story goes that I was a human bride, stolen from Ironside by a courtier, who then abruptly tired of marriage to a mortal and threw me out on my own, before he learned I was pregnant. It's an unpleasant tale, but it serves my purposes. It's garnered me some sympathy ("He should have taken you back Ironside if he'd gotten sick of you."), as well as explained Philomel's obvious aristocratic parentage. It also neatly deflects speculation away from the truth—though I think that those who know me best, like Birch and Heartwood, suspect the real story, just as Thistleweft did.

I'm getting cold and clammy in the pool. _Come on, kids, time to go,_ I say.

They both moan but head for the shore. I indicate to Bettina that we're leaving. She waves goodbye cheerily and sculls off, humming.

I make the children dry off and dress quickly. It's irrational, but I always feel more vulnerable without clothing. It's always easier to face the forest dressed.

Dogwood's still sulky as I get him dressed. "Why couldn't we swim some more?" he whines. "I was having fun!"

_We can't stay forever_, I say. _Just put your clothes on!_

"Oh, dear," says a sudden, nasty, worm-crawling voice in my ear. "Children are such nuisances, aren't they?"

Dogwood screams and Philomel clutches me as I whirl around, drawing my knife and seizing my salt. It's a Ly Erg, pale and stringy and horrible, dressed in rags, that's snuck up on us through the forest.

It slopes closer, licking its lips with a long gray tongue. "Are you the Lady Healer?" it says in a smarmy voice. "Are you the Unicorn-Blessed? I've heard ever so much about you: the mortal girl blessed by the unicorn." It gives a horrid laugh. "But how can a _mortal _be blessed by the unicorn? No mortal deserves such an honor." It creeps closer, voice hardening. "Sneaking in, stealing our magic, I'll show you—"

It breaks off with a shriek of agony as I throw a handful of poisoned salt in its face, then lash out with the knife. Blood sprays, and it screams even louder as the venom eats into its wounds. I grab the kids, and we run.

Wild thrashing behind us, as the wounded, blinded monster lunges. "_You fucking mortal bitch, I'll kill you—!"_

"NO!" Philomel whirls around, her hair aglow. "Leave us ALONE!"

And then there's fire.

Shining silver fire, in a blazing wave from my daughter to the monster. It leaps from her glowing hair, her outthrust hands, crashes over the Ly Erg, burning, biting, stripping away its flesh in charred curls. The Ly Erg cowers back, screaming in agony. A wave of red light runs from its flailing hand, a spell of pestilence or destruction—

I scream silently and lunge forward, but Dogwood is faster. He catches the Ly Erg's spell in his hands. I see him do it. He actually _grabs hold_ of the spell and literally flings it back, snarling.

The Ly Erg screams as its own spell lances into it. There's another voice—someone crying out through the roar of flames and the Ly Erg's shrieks—but I can't hear them clearly—

"STOP!" roars the new voice, and Philomel breaks off as we all turn. The fire disappears, and the Ly Erg collapses, breath squealing in its fire-tortured lungs.

Birch swings down from the canopy. "Are you all right?"

I nod, sweating. My knees are weak. _The children defended me._

"Yeah," says Dogwood with a fierce scowl. "That Ly Erg wanted to hurt Mommy!"

"Vile…little…brat," the Ly Erg pants from its collapse. "Kill you…"

Birch's mouth tightens. Without a word, he strides over, kneels down, and takes the Ly Erg's head in his hands. With one swift, practical jerk, he snaps the creature's neck. We all flinch at the crack. The Ly Erg's eyes go dull, redness fading as it dies.

Birch stands up, wiping Ly Erg slime off his hands, and turns back to us. "Are you all right, really?"

Shaking off my shock, I nod. The children nod too. "We're fine!" Philomel says proudly. "Did you see my magic, Uncle Birch?"

"I sure did," he says, ruffling her hair. "Good work, defending your mother. And Dogwood…!" He turns to Dogwood with shining eyes. "I saw _your _magic too! Well done, my boy! It's finally come out!"

Dogwood shakes his head. "Not mine. The Ly Erg's."

Birch's smile fades. "What?"

"It was the Ly Erg's magic," Dogwood explains matter-of-factly. "I threw it back."

_What? _I ask.

"Dogwood takes other people's spells," Philomel explains patiently, "and does 'em again." She and Dogwood exchange a bewildered, pitying glance: how can adults be so stupid?

_You mean this has been going on for a while now?_ My fingers are shaking with urgency.

"Yeah," Dogwood looks up at me, puzzled. "I copy Melly's spells. All the time." He glances between me and Birch, nervously. "What's wrong?"

Neither of us can reply. "Echo," Birch says at last, heavily. "He's an Echo."

I've never heard that term for it, but I know at once what he means. At Court we called them Mirrors: faeries with no active magic, who can't cast the simplest spell on their own, but who can reflect another faerie's spell with perfect accuracy. With training, they can also nullify any spell cast in their proximity, and destroy any long-standing magic. They're rare, and as highly prized as they are despised: for a faerie without magic is a disgraceful mutant, but also a potentially very valuable servant. Madoc had a knight who was a Mirror, who could reflect martial spells back onto any assailant or enemy to deadly effect, and Madoc held her in high esteem. "That's one reason why you shouldn't get too reliant on magic alone,"my stepfather was fond of saying.

Dogwood stares up at Birch trustingly, curiously. "What's an Echo?"

"It means you can't cast your own spells," Birch explains, "but you can echo other faeries'." He manages a smile. "It's a rare talent, Dogwood."

"Really?" Dogwood beams. "Nice!"

_Why didn't you tell me? _I demand angrily.

Philomel speaks around the thumb in her mouth. "'Cause you might tell us to stop."

Fair enough, I suppose. _I'm not going to do that. _I kneel down, facing them both. _But you must listen. Your gifts are dangerous. _I fight back a shiver: my children, little more than toddlers, have almost burned another faerie alive. _If anyone found out how powerful Philomel is, or that Dogwood is an Echo, they'd want to use you. They wouldn't care about your safety or happiness. They might even take you away from me._

"No!" Dogwood howls and throws his arms around me. Philomel too clings hard. "They can't do that!" she cries.

I squeeze them back, dizzy though I am at this sudden transformation from creatures of raw power, wielding blazing magic, to frightened, wailing toddlers.

"There are those who could," Birch says, slowly and seriously. "There are those who _would._ So don't go displaying your power, you two. Not in front of strangers, not too much. And no hiding things from your mother. Okay?"

"Okay," Dogwood says in a small voice. Philomel knuckles tears from her eyes and nods.

"Oh, Mommy," she says suddenly. "You're bleeding."

I look down, and see that I've scraped a bare knee against a hidden rock. Blood oozes from a shallow cut. _It's all right, _I say. _I'll patch it up when we get home._ I still can't use the unicorn's gift on myself.

"Why not heal it right now?" Birch asks. We look at him. "Call up your gift," he says, "and let's see if Dogwood can't echo it back onto you." He shrugs. "Can't hurt to try."

Dogwood and I look at each other, both rather surprised at the simplicity of this solution. I shrug and summon the unicorn's gift in a white glow around my fingers.

Dogwood echoes it. The light disappears from my hand and wreathes around his own fingers, limning his claws. Grinning in triumph, he bends over and places his glowing hand on my knee.

The cut heals instantly, sealing closed, all pain disappearing. Just like when the unicorn healed me before. I flex my newly healed knee, and smile at my son. My miraculous, amazing son, who can echo blazing spells of destruction and small, gentle magics with equal aplomb.

"Yay Dogwood!" cheers Philomel, and we all laugh. For a moment, despite what's just happened, despite whatever fears we may have for the future, we laugh together.

Naturally, word gets around quickly. We don't exactly tell anyone else about the encounter with the Ly Erg, but soon the whole forest knows anyway. Awed whispers follow me and my children through the canopy: "Did you hear…?...Those kids killed a Ly Erg…The boy's an Echo…"

I'm braced for Dogwood to face mockery and disgust: he's a faerie without magic, as unnatural as a bird without wings. But, though adults mutter darkly and children stare at him with wide eyes, there's very little actual bullying. Some of the village children now avoid him, but mostly things go on as usual.

_I'm surprised, really, _I say to Heartwood during a trip to the village. Dogwood and Philomel are playing with their village friends, racing around the central platform, reenacting their defeat of the Ly Erg with much shrieks and flailing arms. _I thought poor Dogwood would be an outcast._

She shrugs, smoke from her pipe wreathing around her head. "I think people see it as only typical of your family." At my inquiring look, she explains, "You're strange. Philomel is strange. Naturally, Dogwood too is strange."

I blink. Is our oddball status really that cemented? Heartwood chuckles.

Philomel comes hurtling up. "Come on, Mommy, come show how the Ly Erg attacked us!"

I smile, but shake my head firmly. I don't want to be reminded of that terrifying encounter, let alone play it out for an audience. I keep hearing the sick crack of Birch breaking that monster's neck, the smell of scorched flesh. It worries me a little, how proud the children are of themselves. But I suppose it's inevitable: everyone's praising them for defending their mother, for the adroitness of their magical gifts. And they're too young to really understand what Birch did to the Ly Erg.

And here comes Birch now, striding across the platform. "Come on, Philomel, leave your mother alone," he says. "Can't you see she's talking to Heartwood?" He bows politely to the Chieftainess, and she nods in reply.

Now he turns to me. _How are you feeling, Albia? _he signs, eyes softening.

_I'm fine._ And I think I am, too. The flashbacks will fade with time, and the encounter was hardly the worst thing that's ever happened to me.

I smile at Birch. Perhaps I should feel more trepidation or disgust toward him—he's _killed_ someone in front of me, after all—but I don't. He killed an enemy, in defense of me and my children. How churlish and hypocritical it would be, to fear him for that. Besides, who am I to judge? The memory of the soldier's despairing whimpers wafts like foul smoke.

"Come on, Uncle Birch!" Philomel tugs at him. "Come play with us." Laughing, he lets himself be pulled into the game.

"He's very good with them, isn't he?" Heartwood remarks approvingly. "Funny, since he doesn't usually care for children."

_He's always liked mine, _I can't help boasting proudly.

She grunts. "Can't say I've ever had any talent for children," she says musingly. "I don't really blame the Gentry for making mortals raise their kids." She puffs peacefully on her pipe. "I wonder if the Lost Heir's nursemaid made off with the child, back Ironside. That's happened before, you know."

I stare at her. _What's the Lost Heir?_

"Haven't you heard?" Heartwood peers at me through the smoke in mild surprise.

I shake my head

She leans in conspiratorially. "Rumor has it that one of the Greenbriar princes actually managed to father a child," she murmurs. "A baby, who disappeared—or maybe it's hidden away deliberately. No one knows."

A chill runs down my spine. It takes huge effort not to look at Philomel, now echoing the lyrics as Birch teaches her and the other children a new song from Ironside. _That's ridiculous, _I say quickly. _If any of the Greenbriars had fathered a child, we'd know all about it. Even out here._

Heartwood shrugs. "I know. But that's the story. They're calling the child the Lost Heir. A hidden claimant to the throne of Faerie." She leans back and flicks her ears dismissively. "Wishful thinking, if you ask me. Eldred's getting weak—and those sons of his are all worthless. No one wants to think that one of them will soon take the throne."

Frantically, I put my finger to my lips, gesturing her to be quiet. Heartwood smirks a little. "The trees have ears, Albia? Well, perhaps you're right to be cautious."

I lean in. _Is Eldred really dying?_ Not that I have any personal interest in that vile old faerie's health—indeed, there's a kind of smug, malicious triumph to the thought of Eldred wasting away. So much for the faeries' supposed immortality! But if he _does _die…then who takes the throne? An image arises of Balekin being crowned, and my skin crawls.

"Who knows?" Heartwood breathes back. "That's just what I've heard. But I can tell you this: if half of what I've heard is true, then we can brace ourselves for civil war in the not-too-distant future."

Another chill, running through me like ice. My children's voices pierce the silence, bright and happy:

"_I'm gonna be a mighty king_

_So enemies beware!"_

I look up, to see Dogwood and Philomel both crowned in leaves, singing at the tops of their voices with the other children.

"_I'm gonna be the main event_

_Like no king was before!_

_I'm brushing up on looking down,_

_I'm working on my roar!_

_Oh, I just can't wait to be king!"_

I sit, unable to tear my eyes away from the sight of my daughter, wearing a crown, singing a song about taking the throne, and laughing as she does it. I want to grab her away from Birch, I want to slap that stupid goblin. _You idiot, _I want to say, _Philomel should _never_ sing such songs! She should never even contemplate the throne! Of all faeries, Philomel should never, ever even pretend to aspire to the crown. _

But all I can do is stand and watch my daughter, my Lost Heir, dance and sing, melodious and innocent, hair a corona of white around her head, more majestic and magical than any crown.


	10. Chapter 10: Knight

Knight

It's done.

In the lamplight, while my children sleep, I hold up my tapestry, complete at last after so long. I've had to work on it so slowly—in secret, intermittently, in great pain—but work on it I did, and now I've set the final stitch.

My children's breathing is soft in the silence as I take in the thing I've made, the story I've told to no one. It's a series of interconnected scenes, a form of storytelling that Oriana taught me. The story of what happened.

Here is Balekin, leading me away from the ball. Here he is again, yanking me back while I struggle to get away. My stitched mouth is open, ready to scream for help, then in the next scene he curses me—represented by waving lines of green chain stitch. The word _Silence_ floating on the waving lines.

And then he's got me on my back, my skirt pulled up, while he has his will with me and my thread-self can only weep.

Another enchantment of waving green lines. _Tell no one. _Then he's gone, striding away, leaving me crumpled on the ground. And in the next scene, the unicorn comes upon me, prone on the ground. She touches me with her horn.

And in the final scene, I'm on her back, riding away.

The assault, the rape, the rescue. Expressed at last.

I fold it up. I suppose, if I were to do this properly, I would link each scene in a design of vines, flowers or thorns—but I think it's done. I may not have exorcised all the evil—no power in either world will ever do that—but I feel an exhausted satisfaction. At least now I've expressed my pain, told the wrong that Balekin did me, even if it is only to a piece of dumb, unresponsive cloth.

I climb up to the sealed compartment Birch made for me, open it, and tuck it back into the darkest corner, behind the salt, behind the poisons, behind the box containing my Court jewelry. The compartment seals closed.

Then I climb back into bed—where both my children now sleep, having grown too big for cradles long ago—and, tucking them close, fall asleep.

Time goes by.

Philomel gains more control over her powers. They even start being useful: she can fix a shattered plate, for example, and send ripe nuts tumbling down from a tree.

"It's not fair," Dogwood grumbles, folding his arms and watching with glowering jealousy. "How come _I _can't do even the teeniest spell?"

"'Cause you're an Echo." Philomel tosses up a nut and peels its shell in one swift spell. She smirks into Dogwood's eyes.

I hand them both baskets. _Philomel, don't tease Dogwood. And anyway, Dogwood, _I _can't cast spells._

"Yes you can," he says, taking the basket and getting sullenly to his knees to scoop up nuts. "You heal people."

_That's the unicorn's magic, not mine_, I say firmly. _Anyway, you can use your gift to echo the unicorn's magic onto me, so I can be healed. Philomel can't do that. _That's been so useful: I can't use the unicorn's gift on myself, but Dogwood can use his gift to reflect my healing spells back onto me. For the first time, I can be magically healed at will.

He perks up a little at this. "True." He pokes his tongue at Philomel. "I can heal Mommy. And you can't."

"Hey!" She throws a nut at him, and he lunges at her. I step in before it goes any further.

_Stop fighting! When we get home, you're having another reading lesson_. _You both need something to occupy your minds._

Philomel grins while Dogwood groans. "More _reading_? But that's so boring, Mommy!"

_No it's not. Reading is fun and exciting_, I say, though, I have to admit, not the way Dogwood does it. _The twins bring us such nice books from Ironside. Now come on, gather those nuts and we'll go home._

Still sulking, Dogwood dawdles behind on the treeway, while Philomel skips up to take my hand.

"Can we read more _Alice in Wonderland_?"

I nod. She smiles, but then sighs and looks away.

I can't sign—my hands are full—but I nudge her and peer at her inquiringly.

"Nothing important," she says, reading my mind. "Just…why do we have only human books?"

"Yeah?" Dogwood scampers up. "Why?"

I drop Philomel's hand and slide my basket onto my elbow in order to sign. _Humans have a creativity that faeries don't. They can imagine new stories, but faeries can't._

"Like how you can think of new embroidery designs?" asks Philomel eagerly, while Dogwood scowls.

"That's not fair!"

"Is so!" Philomel counters smartly. "Mortals can do creativity, but faeries can do magic. Right, Mommy?" She glances at me for maternal confirmation, and I nod.

_Humans can only use magic given to them by faeries. _We reach a bridge, and I press the knot. The vines and branches unfurl, forming the bridge across the gap and illustrating my point. _But faeries can't imagine new things like humans can. Each race has its own talents. _We cross the bridge, and it retracts behind us.

Dogwood hurries up again, looking suddenly anxious. "Is that why humans die?"

"Die?" Philomel stares. "What do you mean?"

"Bettina told me," Dogwood says, staring down at the treeway vines. "That humans all grow old and _die._ Their hair turns white and their skin wrinkles, they get weak and stupid, and then they just _die_, for no reason." His eyes are full of anxiety and alarm as he glances at me. "That's not going to happen to _you_, Mommy…is it?"

"No!" Philomel clutches my arm protectively. "It can't happen."

Gently, I shake her off. _I'm afraid it will. That's the natural way of things for mortals._

"No!" Now I've got both children clinging to me and sobbing. "Mommy, you can't die!"

Torn between distress and exasperated amusement, I wondered exactly how a sunny, peaceful afternoon turned into _this_. I gently push them away so I can sign. _Don't worry. It won't happen for years. Decades even. _

They both look relieved. "We could all be killed by wargs by then, I guess!" Dogwood says perkily.

I stare at him in bemusement. Both my children are usually so cheerful and innocent that these moments—moments when I'm reminded that, for all their innocence, they are still children of the wild—bewilder me. _Well, yes, _I say. _But let's try not to._

There are no patients waiting for us when we get home. I spend the afternoon on the children's education—Philomel happily reads aloud while Dogwood unenthusiastically mumbles and stammers his way through his book—and then let them play awhile before making them help with dinner.

Philomel and I even sew a little together. I don't need to actually sew most of my own clothing; one mode of payment popular among my female patients is to create new garments for me and the children, in that magical faerie way: a flash of needles, a whipping of cloth, and hey presto the skirt or pants or vest is made. But I still sew my underwear, and cut up menstrual rags from old cloth (honestly, it's easier than trying to get the twins to understand what I mean by _tampons_, and at least I can wash them. It's not easy disposing of Ironside trash here in the valley). Now that the tapestry is done, I've also moved on to other embroidery projects. I've found my old love has been rekindled: the joy of threading a needle with gorgeous color and working steadily, following a pattern, creating something beautiful.

Even more, I enjoy passing on my skills to Philomel. Her little face is so earnest as she watches what I do, or bends over her sewing frame, tongue poking out in concentration. She's made dozens of outfits for her ragdoll, Lulu, adorable dresses of rose petals and leaves. It's marvelous to watch her stitches take shape, to see her grow in skill, just as Oriana did for me.

Her earlier comment about new embroidery designs has me thinking, too. I always create my own patterns by drawing them on graph paper that the twins steal for me. Why not turn this to my advantage? The faeries can embroider far better than me—they can embroider a living flower into fabric, for example, as Thistleweft did for me in the moonlight dress—but they can't any of them dream up original designs. Why not trade some of my patterns in the village, when I have no patients?

My head is so full of this new scheme that I'm completely taken by surprise by Philomel's question at bedtime. Though, to be honest, I probably would have been poleaxed by it under any circumstances.

"Mommy," she says suddenly in the dimly lit bed nook, "is that why my father kicked us out? Because you're going to die?"

The question is like a blow. For a moment, I can't breathe. I sit upright in bed, Dogwood sleeping silently on my other side, and gasp while Philomel stares up at me, innocent and inquiring.

_Who told you about that? _I ask at last.

She wriggles a little, shiftily. "Uh—I think it might've been Bettina. But everybody knows." She looks up at me some more. "So? Is that why?"

_I don't really know_, I say, trying to buy time. My mind races, trying to come up with a story that will minimize the number of lies I have to tell. _I didn't really know your father that well. _True enough, so far. _He kept me under a lot of enchantments._ Less true…

"And then he threw you out," Philomel says solemnly. "While you were pregnant with me."

_Yes_, I say, taking the plunge into the sea of falsehoods. _That's the first thing I remember clearly. He stripped off the enchantments before leaving me in the woods. _Please, please, let her be buying this….

She seems to, looking up at me with wide, innocent purple eyes, full of sympathy. "And then the unicorn blessed you?"

_That's right. _I look at her with concern. She's picking at the bedcover, a pensive frown on her face. _Philomel…does it make you feel bad? That your father got rid of us?_

She screws up her face, thinking hard, clutching Lulu the ragdoll. If this wasn't so serious, I'd laugh at how adorable she is. "No," she says at last. "He sounds really awful. We're better off without him. Uncle Birch says all courtiers are scum, anyway."

I blink a bit at this—I knew Birch wasn't a fan of the Courts, but I didn't know his contempt ran this deep—as she snuggles in, tucking Lulu in next to her as she always does. "It's nice here, with just us," she says contentedly. "You, me and Dogwood. A father would just get in the way."

_I'm glad you think that._ I exhale with relief.

"So can I have another story before bed?" She gives me a dulcet look through her lashes. "Because I don't have a father?"

_Nice try, Philomel. Good night. _I reach up to extinguish the hanging lamp.

"Good night, Mommy!"

She's asleep in seconds, but I stay awake, staring into the darkness. I feel so awful, lying to my daughter about something so important. But how can I tell her the truth? I'm literally incapable of it, and even if I wasn't, how would that particular bedtime story go?

_Well, Philomel dear, I was kidnapped when I was just about your age by General Madoc, who killed my parents before my eyes before spiriting me and my sisters away to be raised at the High Court, where Prince Balekin Greenbriar—yes, _that_ Prince Balekin—tore away my voice before raping me and impregnating me with you. Good night, sweetie!_

No, I can't tell her the truth. But I still hate this. And it reminds me uncomfortably of my own mother. She, too, had no choice except to lie to her daughters. And look how that turned out. Have I set myself and my family on the same path?

I shake my head, tossing on the pillow. It's not at all the same. I didn't break any vows to Balekin, or to Madoc either for that matter. Balekin never gave a damn about me—I doubt I was even a real person to him—and he never even knew about Philomel. He's hardly going to come looking for us now. As for Madoc, I daresay that if he was going to find us, he would have done it by now. Anyway, we're under the protection of a Great Tree of Faerie, not to mention the goblin tribe and the forest itself. We're safe.

I bite my lip, there in the dark. "Safe" is never safe enough.

With such thoughts as these, it's no wonder I don't sleep very well. I wake repeatedly from indefinite nightmares, doze feverishly, and, at the first hint of dawn, wearily get up and start preparing for the day, leaving the children to sleep. If I can't sleep, I might as well get started on my new embroidery pattern scheme.

I take up a pad of graph paper and a pencil and head outside—not before buckling on my knife and salt, though. I'm not repeating that mistake.

Outside, the dawn is gray, misty and ephemeral. Fog floats among the trees, obscuring distances, blurring the canopy. I sit on the root-bench. Nothing can hurt me while I'm touching the Tree and the light, dim though it is, is still better than indoors.

My pencil arcs, and the first lines of my new embroidery pattern emerge. This is a good idea, but only if I do it right. All the goblin women in town have admired my designs; like all faeries, they are awed and fascinated by human artistry. But will they buy embroidery patterns? Everyone has at least one embroidered outfit for festivals, but it's not like these women have a lot of time to sit around doing fancywork. Maybe if I market it as new patterns for festival garb…

There comes the sound of hoofbeats, slow, unsteady. I stiffen, and freeze as a dark shape—two shapes—come staggering out of the mist.

It's a faerie woman, of a kind I haven't seen in a long time. The kind who looks almost human, save for her long, twitching wings. A Court faerie.

I gape at her, heart pounding. Fear dries my mouth. Court faeries hardly ever come to this remote valley, and when they do, it's never for a good purpose. I'm measuring the distance to the front door, wondering if I can make a run for it, when I see the arrow sticking out of her arm, and how her horse limps behind her, head held low.

They're both wounded. She's tied a bandage around her arm, but can't remove the arrow—that would rip out half her arm—and blood trickles stickily down her horse's flank, seeping from a gash. They both limp wearily into the clearing and come to a halt.

"Are you the Lady Healer?" Her voice is rough and cracked with pain and exhaustion.

Warily, I nod. I take in more of her: her sleek hair, her skeletal wings, her muscled frame. The sword at her side, and the tabard—

My blood turns to ice. This is a knight of the Court of Termites. Roiben's Unseelie Court.

Frantically, I wonder again if I can run—it's only a few steps to the door, and she's wounded. I might have a chance. But then her horse moans in pain and staggers, and my selfish fear melts a little.

"Don't be afraid," the knight says. "I mean you no harm today, I swear it. My mount and I are both wounded. We need your help." She pauses. "I'll repay you, of course."

Slowly, I stand up. I hate seeing them in such pain, especially the innocent horse, but this is going to be a trickier negotiation than usual. I scribble on my paper. _What should I call you? _I write, holding it so she can read it.

"So you really are mute, eh?" A brief grin flashes across her face. "That's what I heard. Call me Dulcamara."

I step back a little. I've heard of Dulcamara, back at Court; next to Lord Roiben himself, she's the most feared faerie in the Court of Termites. What's she doing _here_? And how did she hear about me?

"Please don't be afraid," she repeats, and coughs. "I'm not here to do any violence to you or yours. I was riding through this area on my king's business when a group of wild fey attacked me." She grimaces. "The locals here don't like Court faeries much, it seems. I got away, but I need help before I return home. I've heard rumors of a healer here, a mortal girl blessed by the unicorn. Will you help me, Unicorn-Blessed?"

The scent of blood is thick and coppery. It will draw predators before long. Still I hesitate. _I will, _I write, _but under certain conditions._

"Of course." Dulcamara looks like she's just barely refraining from rolling her eyes.

I think carefully. _In exchange for my healing you and your horse, _I write, _I want your oath of secrecy. You will not tell anyone about me or my children. You will do nothing, either in words or actions, to reveal our location, or that of our Tree, to anyone or anything, either in Faerie or Ironside or anywhere in between. You will not lead anyone or anything, in your Court or out of it, to our home. You will not discuss anything about me or my children, or even hint of our existence, to a single entity or object in either world or in between. You will swear all of this by the most binding oath._

Dulcamara reads all this silently, one eyebrow raised. "Not eager to be found, are you?"

I fold my arms and tap my fingers at my side, waiting.

She sighs. "All right. I can swear to this." She recites the whole oath and swears to it, binding herself by the strictest terms.

Only when she's finished do I reach out to heal the horse first, summoning the unicorn's power in a flash of white. The horse tosses its head in agreeable surprise, shivering with relief at the abrupt end to pain as its flesh knits back together. Dulcamara makes a slight, awed noise, hastily cut off, as if to hide her moment of weakness. It gives me a nasty flashback to the Court, where every emotion, no matter what it was, was weakness and had to repressed before it could be exploited.

I shake off the moment and approach her. Carefully, I peel off the bandage, stiff with blood. The wound's stopped bleeding, but the arrow has to come out. I gesture that I have to yank it out, and she holds still and unflinching while I carefully extract it.

More blood flows from the reopened wound, a lot of blood. I put my hands to the wound, and the flesh melds back together, flawlessly, leaving only a trail of disconnected blood.

Dulcamara looks at it, reluctantly impressed. "Fine work, Lady Healer."

I incline my head in acknowledgement. Taking out a cloth, she wipes away the blood before looking back at me.

"So—do you want anything in return besides my oath?"

I shake my head. _Your oath is enough. _I bow, hoping she'll take the hint and leave.

She takes her horse's bridle, but makes no move to mount and ride away. Instead, she looks at me with a thoughtful, calculating expression that I don't like at all.

"You know, Lady Healer," she says, "you have a most rare gift."

I step back. My heart thuds.

"Most rare." She glances at me out of the corner of her eye, like a falcon. "Such a gift would be very welcome at our Court."

Ice shoots through me. I back away some more, and shake my head vehemently.

"Are you sure? You have two young children, I understand. It can't be easy, raising them alone, out here in the wild. Think of the education we could give them at our Court." She gives me what I'm sure she thinks is a friendly, reassuring smile. "Are you worried that you'd be mistreated, as a mortal in a faerie Court? You needn't be. We are accustomed to mortals at the Court of Termites. Our King's consort was something very close to mortal, once. She would give you welcome."

I hesitate. Her comment about my children's education hits home. There's no doubt that they _would _get a better education at her Court…but no. The risk is just too great. Again, I shake my head.

"Well, if you're sure…" She shrugs. "Just remember, Lady Healer, Unicorn-Blessed: rumors about you are spreading, among more than just the Wild Fey. Eventually, they're going to reach ears more powerful and unscrupulous than mine. And then you should consider: is it better to join a Court of your own free will, and gain its protection, or be snatched like a mouse in the talons of a hawk, and drafted into some stranger's service?"

I keep my face stiff. There's no way I'm going to let her see that her words have affected me. But of course they have: this is something I never considered. And, though I don't want to admit it, she sounds all too plausible.

_They can't snatch me against my will, _I argue, holding up the paper pad. _I'm a mortal. It's Eldred's law._

"Ah." A sly look crosses her face. "But your _children _aren't, are they? That law doesn't protect _them_. Tell me, if some monarch sent their knights to snatch your kids away, would you really let them go? Or would you follow them into captivity?"

I gulp. I know the answer to this, as must she: I would follow them in an instant. I would have no choice. A horrible vision rises, of my screaming, weeping children being grabbed by faceless knights and hauled away in chains. My stomach clenches, sweat breaking out on my forehead.

Dulcamara takes something from her pocket and places it on the ground. "Use this to contact me if you change your mind," she says. "Just snap it in half, and I shall come, and escort you and your children to my King."

Still I don't move. I don't look at the object she's placed on the ground. I stand there, arms crossed, face frozen, and wait for her to leave.

She climbs gracefully into the saddle, swinging one leg over her horse's back. "Till next we meet, Lady Healer!" Her voice rings merrily on the air as she gallops off.

I wait until the last hoofbeats die away before I collapse. I fall to my knees, paper dropping to the ground, and gasp for breath. I feel like I can breathe again, now that the smothering power of the Unseelie knight is gone.

I allow myself to look at the object she's left on the ground. It's a stick, a thin little twig carved in intricate runes. I glare at it hatefully. I know—just as Dulcamara knew when she left it for me—that I'm going to have to take it. I can't destroy it, and I can't leave it lying around. And besides—and this is the part I hate most—her words have wormed in. _Is it better to join a Court of your own free will, or be snatched like a mouse in the talons of a hawk?...That law doesn't protect your children…_

Gingerly, using the very tips of my fingers, I pick up the twig. I hurry inside, the roses parting for me, and, quickly, I hide it in the sealed compartment.

Climbing down again, I know I should cook breakfast. But I can't. I can only watch my children's sleeping faces, fear and worry gnawing at my heart.

"You seem distracted," Birch says a few days later. "Something on your mind?"

He's come over to give Dogwood a self-defense lesson. It took me a while to get onboard, but Birch argued that an Echo needs to know how to defend himself physically, not being able to cast defensive spells. And Birch is actually rather a good fighter, and a good teacher, and Dogwood's certainly enjoying his lessons. He's standing on our platform right now, breathing heavily, but grinning, and he looks ready to keep going.

Birch, however, has paused and is looking at me in some curiosity. I guess I must have been staring into the distance again, frowning. I've been doing that a lot lately, wondering about Dulcamara's words.

_No_, I say hastily. Even more than the manticore, I am not going to tell anyone about Dulcamara, not even Birch. I gesture at Dogwood and Philomel, who is happily using her magic to animate Lulu and make her dance in the shifting sunlight and shadows, light glinting on the new dress of iris petals Philomel sewed for her. _Just a bit tired._

"Ah, kids." He shrugs. "Enough to tire anyone out. Nothing but trouble."

Philomel looks up indignantly at this, Lulu slumping down. "Hey!"

He nudges her gently with one foot. "You know it's true, Melly."

"Yeah, Melly," Dogwood smirks. "You tire everyone out."

Her eyes narrow. "What, and _you _don't?"

_Children, please, _I say wearily. _No fighting._

"Yes," says Birch. "Let's keep on with the lesson."

He recommences teaching Dogwood blocking moves. They're both trying hard, but it's awkward going. Goblin-style fighting depends heavily on the fighter having rotating ankles and a prehensile tail, neither of which Dogwood possesses. This limits the repertoire Birch can teach him. Still, Dogwood seems to be enjoying himself, watching Birch and listening to his instructions with the utmost seriousness, before trying them out himself with great enthusiasm. Birch is being so patient with him. It almost makes up for my worry, and the other thought buzzing around my head like a persistent mosquito.

_"Uncle Birch says all courtiers are scum, anyway." _Why can't I get those words out of my head? And in the aftermath of Dulcamara's alarming visit, why do I care so much? I knew Birch didn't like courtiers, so why does this piece of tittle-tattle bother me so much? Why do I have a sinking feeling when I look at him, like I'm worried about what he thinks of _me_?

Because I _am _worried. I was a courtier myself, and Birch knows it. Does he include me in the category of "scum"?

"Oh, oh…" Birch comes to a halt, grinning and panting. "Let's have a break, Dogwood." He drops down beside me with a happy huff of air. "Your son has some energy, Albia!"

I duck my head in acknowledgement, and hold out the water bucket, along with two cups. Dogwood drinks his thirstily and drops to his stomach, flicking leaves and bits of twigs at Philomel's animated doll.

"He'll be a good fighter, one day," says Birch thoughtfully. He sips his water. "Even without a tail or proper ankles." He frowns suddenly. _We'll have to be careful, though, or some monarch will recruit him for the next war, _he signs out of sight of the children, who are now engaged in their own war, of thrown twigs and bark.

_Do you think there will be war?_

He shrugs. _There always is, isn't there? _

I feel a clench of anxiety. It seems like everyone's worried about war all the time now. It's darkening the horizon like a storm. But my next question takes me entirely by surprise, leaping from my hands.

_Birch, do you dislike me?_

Birch, midway through sipping more water, chokes. "What?"

_Nothing. _My face is burning. _Never mind, it was a stupid question…_

_ No, tell me_, he signs.

I hesitate. But his face is open and honest, waiting.

_You don't like Court faeries, _I say. _And I came from a Court. So, I guess I was worried that you…didn't like me._ I shake my head. _I'm sorry. This is stupid._

"Albia," he says, very low and serious, "that is indeed a stupid question. Of course I like you. We've been friends for years. I've helped raise your children. It's not your fault you were at a Court; you were kidnapped and enchanted."

If only he knew.

"And you learned courtiers' perfidy for yourself," he finishes. "Just like Thistleweft and…" He breaks off.

After a moment, I say, _What?_

He doesn't answer. He looks away and sighs. "We need to stay away from Courts and kings and the Gentry," he says in a low, flat voice. "You, me, the kids…everyone in the valley. That's the best thing for people like us. Stay far away from them."

I nod, but my insides are clenched with apprehension. He's absolutely right—but what are we supposed to do when the Gentry come bothering us?

Again, Dulcamara's words come back. What if she's right? What if my family's being kidnapped and forced into a Court is inevitable?

The thought makes my blood run cold. Not only for myself, but for my kids. What would a Court do to Dogwood, with his low lineage and his unseemly gift? He'd be ridiculed into misery before being drafted as someone's military pet. Meanwhile, I'd be enslaved and forced to heal our captors' every wound.

But it's the thought of Philomel that makes me truly shake. Once the Court figured out who she really was—and there is virtually no chance that they would _not_ eventuallyfigure it out—the consequences would be catastrophic. The most _benign _outcome I can think of is their holding her for ransom to the Greenbriars. The worst outcomes are things I can't even contemplate.

But by far the _likeliest_ result is that whichever Court grabbed us would make a bid for the Greenbriar throne, igniting a bloody free-for-all of epic proportions. They'd throw my little girl headfirst into a vicious civil war. They wouldn't give a damn for her, herself: all they'd care about is her birthright. They'd turn her into a puppet queen if they could, or condemn her to slaughter. I look at my children, innocently playing, and the thought of them facing such horrors is enough to make my vision blur.

So is Dulcamara right? Should I accept her offer?

But, really, what difference would it make?

Do I seriously believe any of her assurances? Faeries can't lie, but there are many ways to hide the truth, and courtiers like Dulcamara know them all. And she never said that her Court _wouldn't _exploit me and my family. If we join the Court of Termites, all of my forebodings will come to pass—just maybe a little more politely. Maybe. They _are_ Unseelie, after all.

And they're a _Court_. A sullen wave of resentment rises at this, and my jaw clenches. I already spent a decade locked in the hell of a faerie Court. And I did not endure those years of abuse and debasement—I did not flee the High Court on the unicorn's back—I did not cut myself off from my own family—I did not raise two children alone—only to scurry back into that same trap at the first sign of danger. Maybe Dulcamara's right and we will get snatched; but I _will not_ go back of my own free will. I will not knowingly condemn my children or myself to a life of servitude and misery, just out of fear of what might happen.

Love is worth more than that. Freedom is worth more than that.

"_Dogwood!_" Philomel's shriek of rage rouses me from my steely musings. Eyes and hair glowing, she starts pummeling him with a spell, which he immediately turns back on her. She gestures, and Dogwood yelps as his feet go shooting out from underneath him. Philomel snickers.

"Kids! Stop!" Birch yells, wading into the fray. As I join him, separating the children and signing furiously, I wonder wryly if Dulcamara would still be quite so keen for us to join her Court if she knew just how unruly my kids could be.


	11. Chapter 11: Guests

Guests

I set down my baskets by the berry bushes. _Now don't go too far_, I tell the children.

It's been a couple of months since I healed Dulcamara. I haven't heard anything from her, or any other representative of the Court of Termites. I haven't even seen any other Gentry, and despite myself, I've relaxed a little. Maybe Dulcamara did keep her promise, in spirit as well as form. Maybe we're still safe. And meantime, whether we're safe or not, we still need to eat.

Dogwood shakes his head earnestly. "We won't."

Philomel giggles. "We'll be fine!" She takes up a basket. "Come on, Dogwood. Bet you I can pick more than you!"

"You won't!" He grabs a basket, and, running to the bushes, they both begin picking frantically. I smile in affection and exasperation. Does it always have to be a competition with Philomel? She's so like her aunt sometimes…

I shake my head a little, making the snail shells braided into my hair clank (Philomel's developed a passion for playing with my hair). Why am I thinking of Jude again? She and Vivienne have been preying on my mind lately. Maybe Dulcamara stirred up memories. Or maybe it's because Philomel reminds me so much of Jude lately; not just in her attitude, but because she looks so much like her. Of course, in reality she looks like _me_; maybe not in her coloring, but our facial structures are very similar. And, since Jude and I are identical, I see my sister in my daughter's face, more clearly all the time. It makes me miss Jude, and Vivienne, and Oriana. I wonder what they would think of my children if they knew…?

Sighing, I push away those thoughts. There's no point to them. I begin picking berries.

It's a lovely morning. The sun is slanting through breaks in the clouds, and the shadows are all gold-edged. The clearing where the berries grow is full of bright, chasing light. No one else is there; we have the bushes to ourselves, all heavy with fruit. I finish filling up a basket and set it aside for another. We'll have to come back for more later.

Philomel and Dogwood are eating as many berries as they pick, mouths stained red. _Come on_, I scold. _Fill up the baskets!_

Philomel suddenly stops chewing. "What's that?" she asks, head coming up.

_What?_ I ask as a shadow suddenly crosses the sky. Not the shadow of a cloud, but of a great flying beast.

I react immediately. Dropping my basket, I yank both my children under the bushes. _Quiet! _I sign.

They don't need the warning. Children of the wild, they know to huddle close and be silent, in the cavity beneath the bush. I sit tensely, feeling them tremble against me. Or Dogwood trembles; Philomel falls still, and I sense a shiver of magic. The shadows draw closer around us, as she weaves an illusion, a protective camouflage. Good girl. I stroke her hair. She snuggles closer.

There's an impact—actually, there's four. They land softly, deliberately, without menace.

"Where'd they go?" says a voice.

That voice. Shock washes over me in an icy wave. My whole body jerks and Dogwood looks up inquiringly. I shake my head at him, and he falls still.

"I think they went under those berry bushes," says another voice.

I cannot believe my ears. I cannot believe this, as four sets of feet thump softly to the earth from their saddles.

"Hello?" calls the second voice. "We don't mean any harm, I swear. Please come out."

"Honestly, Jude," says a third, male voice, one that's even more astonishing in its way. "After the entrance we've made, what makes you think they'll believe you?"

"Shut up, Cardan," Jude says in a lower tone. She raises her voice again. "Please come out. We're just here looking for our sister."

Like one in a dream, I crawl out from under the bushes, Dogwood and Philomel clinging uncertainly, into the light of day.

At first the light dazzles me, so all I see are four shadowy figures. Then the dazzle fades, and they resolve: three women and one man. One of the women is dressed as a knight, a sword at her side. The man wears elegant traveling clothes. One of the other women wears a plain traveling gown. The last woman has pink hair. Two humans, two faeries.

It's my sisters. It's Vivienne and Jude, with Heather and Cardan. After all these years, my sisters are before me.

For a moment, we stand in silence: me and my children, staring at the elegant strangers before us. Then, slowly, Vivienne steps forward. Her hands rise, her eyes fill with tears. "Taryn?" She whispers in a choked voice. "Taryn?"

_Vivienne. _My lips form the syllables, and my own tears sting my eyes.

"Taryn!" And Vivienne and Jude are both on me, both embracing me, stroking my hair, kissing my cheeks, crying out. Jude sobs in my ear, and I feel her tremble against me: Jude, who never even winced, let alone cried. Now she shakes with the same emotion that rushes through me, and her cheeks are wet with tears.

"Taryn…Taryn," she chokes. "Is it really you?"

All I can do is embrace her back, heart full to bursting. Crying, Vivienne hugs me tight, just as Jude does. Vivienne. Jude. My sisters, in my arms again.

At last my sisters step back. Tears wet all our faces as we beam into each other's eyes. I still can't believe this.

Blinking back more tears, I look over my sister's shoulders, where my children stand, staring with huge eyes and open mouths. They've never seen anything like this before. They've never _thought _to see anything like this happen to their mother.

Beyond them, Heather is smiling at the scene. She looks completely bizarre here, with her pink hair and human clothes, even as she holds the horses' reins with an assured and practiced hand. Even stranger is Cardan, standing nearby in traveling clothes. _Cardan?_ I cannot fathom what Prince Cardan Greenbriar, of all people, could possibly be doing here. Did he accompany my sisters? _Prince Cardan_?

"Taryn," says Vivienne. She speaks in a choked voice, eyes still shining with tears. "Say something, Taryn."

For the first time, pain slashes through my joy: the old, old pain. I look at the ground.

"What?" Jude's voice is sharp, a burst of aching familiarity. "What is it?"

Philomel speaks for me. "She can't talk."

"What do you mean, can't?" Jude turns to frown down at her. "Who are you?"

"I'm Philomel," she says, tossing her white hair back defiantly and hugging Lulu to her side. "And that's my Mommy."

"And mine," Dogwood puts in, stepping up, hands curled into fists.

"Your _what_?" Jude's expression is priceless as she turns to gape at me, flabbergasted. "Taryn…?"

I nod, smiling, and step over to stand by the children. _Introduce yourselves, kids_.

They do so, still eyeing these strangers doubtfully. Jude and Vivienne are still completely poleaxed as they gape at my kids, but Heather grins at them cheerfully. "Hi kids, nice to meet you! I'm Heather," she says. "I'm your Auntie Vivienne's girlfriend."

"And you can call me Connor," Cardan says smoothly. "I'm a friend of the family."

I turn to give him a hard look. Not only is he using a false name, but that's not how _I _remember Prince Cardan. He has the grace to squirm a little, shamefaced, and looks appealingly at Jude.

She visibly pulls herself together. "It's true, more or less," she says to me. I raise both eyebrows skeptically, and she shrugs. "Things changed, after you disappeared. A lot of things, including that." She turns to my children, sweeping them a correct, courtly bow. They both stare. "Pleasure to meet you, Philomel, Dogwood. I'm your mother's sister. Your Aunt Jude."

"And I'm your Aunt Vivienne." Vivi curtsies. "Also your mother's sister."

Philomel stares between them. "Are you mortal?" she asks at last.

"I am," Jude says. "Vivienne's not."

Philomel turns her intense purple stare on Vivi. "Why not?"

"Eh?" Vivi blinks. Behind Philomel, Heather and Cardan are both stifling laughter.

"Mommy's mortal," Philomel informs her. "So how come you're not?"

_Philomel! Don't be rude! _Even so, I have to smile at my daughter's grasp of biology. _Vivienne's my half-sister. We had the same mother, but my father was a human, while hers is a faerie._

"Ohhh." Philomel nods enlightenment. Already she's seeming more relaxed. "Half and half. Like me!" She laughs.

_Yes, _I say, hiding a pang. _Like you._

Jude watches my signing in increasing bemusement. "Taryn…can you really not talk at all?"

I shake my head, avoiding her eye. Cardan is watching me with an odd little frown.

"Why not?" Jude demands. "What happened?"

"She's never talked," Dogwood pipes up defiantly, and ducks behind me again as everyone turns to stare at him.

I signal to Philomel to translate. "She says," Philomel says as I sign, "that we'll discuss everything back at the house." She blinks up at me. "Are we really taking them back to the house?"

I nod, and take up two of the baskets. _Get the baskets. We'll take the treeway. _I gesture at our guests to follow me and start to head off, both children sticking close and casting glances back at our visitors.

Behind me, I hear Vivienne dismiss the ragwort steeds, turning them back into stalks of grass, and they all start tromping after me. It still seems utterly unreal, as though I'll look back and discover that they've disappeared. My family. Here. I can't believe it.

Dogwood yanks my shirt. "Mommy?"

_Yes?_ I hang the baskets awkwardly off my arms so I can sign.

"Aunt Jude…she's your identical twin? Like Alder and Elder?"

_That's right._

"So…" I can just see the logic working through his mind. "Her voice…"

_What about it?_

"Is that what you used to sound like? Before?"

"Yeah," Philomel says, peering up at me. "Is that what your voice sounded like?"

A stinging tide of tears blurs the scene. I look away, blinking furiously. Why am I so upset? Their question is perfectly reasonable. Of course they have no idea what my voice used to sound like. They've never heard it. I've never spoken to them aloud. I've never sung them lullabies, or taught them the songs and ballads of my own childhood. When they were learning to talk, I never sounded through words with them. I've never muttered angrily under my breath at yet another interruption or sleepless night. I've never screamed their names in rage or fear or frustration. I've never bitten back swearwords in front of them. I've never raised my voice in a scolding or lecture. I've never murmured soothingly over small wounds or nightmares. I've never laughed aloud in delight at their antics, nor exclaimed over their accomplishments. I've never made playful noises during games, nor hummed them to sleep at night. I've never done any of these things that a mother should do, and I never will.

"Taryn?" Vivienne catches up, looking worriedly into my face. "Are you all right?"

Wiping away moisture, I nod and speed up, heading for the nearest ladder.

"Why are you calling her Taryn?" Philomel asks Vivi.

"That's her name." I can feel Vivi's gaze on me. "Or…it was."

"Her name's Albia now," Philomel says proudly. "Everyone calls her that. 'Cept me and Dogwood, of course. We call her Mommy."

I can sense Vivienne burning to ask her more questions. Just slightly, I shake my head, eyes widening. She opens and closes her mouth, and visibly chooses a different topic. "I'm sure she's a very good mommy to you," she says kindly.

"_We _think so," Philomel says complacently, swinging Lulu at her side. "Right, Dogwood?"

Dogwood wraps a little clawed hand around mine. "Right."

I nearly melt at this. I give Dogwood a return squeeze and both children a smile as we reach the ladder.

"What _is _this?" Heather asks as we ascend. Her accent, so sharp and unfamiliar, is like a minor shock to my ears. "A treehouse?"

"It's a treeway." Philomel certainly seems to be enjoying her self-appointed role of tour guide, grinning back at Heather over her shoulder as she climbs. "The goblins make them. They're safer than walking on the ground, right, Mommy?" She adds this as I turn to help her onto the platform at the canopy.

I nod, and wait until the whole party is assembled before leading them along the aerial highway of vines, leaves and branches.

I'm glad that etiquette requires us all to march single-file along one side of the treeway (as Philomel self-importantly tells the strangers, getting them organized into line). It stops my guests asking more questions, though I can practically feel their confusion buzzing like a swarm of bees. My head's still whirling: how did they find me? And why now, after all this time? What's Cardan doing with my sisters? What's _Heather _doing with them? What did Jude mean by things changing? Changing how? And—my blood runs cold to think this—did they tell Madoc before they left? Or, even worse…Balekin? After all, Cardan's here…

Behind me, I can sense my family is burning with similar questions; but, luckily, Philomel rises quite unconsciously to the occasion. She bounces along, chattering all about the treeways, the reasons why they're so much safer, how the goblins make them, the goblin tribe itself, how much she enjoys visiting the village, her friends there, how Dogwood himself is half goblin…

"Ah…was your father a goblin, Dogwood?" Jude asks carefully.

I can feel my guests' eyes all boring into me. I nudge Dogwood, who's been clinging silently to my side.

"Yes," he says softly, glancing over his shoulder at them. "That's what my first mother said, Mommy says."

Cardan speaks now, from behind Jude. "Your first mother?"

"Dogwood's adopted!" Philomel says cheerfully. "After his first mother died. Mommy's _my _first mother, though."

"And who," Cardan asks softly, "was your father, Philomel?"

I'm sure they all catch me stiffening, even Heather. Even Dogwood looks up at me, concerned. Only Philomel is oblivious. "A Court faerie. He stole Mommy from Ironside but then sealed her voice and threw her out while she was pregnant with me," she adds matter-of-factly.

"I see," says Cardan, still softly, and I wonder in panic exactly _what _he sees. "How unfortunate."

I'm careful not to turn around to view my family's reaction to this little story, but I can feel their eyes boring into me even harder.

There's the sound of tramping feet, and the treeway vibrates under our feet. A band of goblins, all wielding baskets, moves toward us, clearly on their way to the berry patch. They wave at me cheerfully, only to stop dead, gaping at my guests. "Albia!" exclaims Ashwood, looking over the elegant visitors with astonishment. "Who are these?"

"They're Mommy's family!" cries Philomel happily. "These are my Aunts Jude, Vivienne and Heather, and Uncle Connor!"

"Really?" Ashwood and the others all gawp. "You never told us you had family, Albia!"

I shake my head, slowly, avoiding everyone's eyes, and trying to hide my own stunned bemusement at hearing Prince Cardan described as "Uncle Connor".

"We've all come for a visit," Vivienne says warmly. "We wanted to make sure she's all right. We haven't seen her in seven years."

I blink a bit at this. Seven years? Has it really been so long?

"Well…understandable, I suppose," another goblin, Maple, says doubtfully. She jiggles her baby on her shoulder. "Where do you hail from?"

"East," Jude says. "One of the Courts." That's leaving quite a bit out, I notice.

"_Really_?" The goblins all manage to crowd forward in fascination and shrink away in terror in the same movement. "The same Court you were kicked out of, Albia?" Maple asks with keen interest.

"That's right," says Jude, completely unfazed.

"We're taking them back to the house," Philomel says proudly.

"Well, don't let us keep you." Ashwood waves us on, and the goblins all wave goodbye as we pass. Behind us, I hear the excited gossip starting already. I sigh. So much for discretion.

Jude glances over her shoulder. "That's it," she says grimly. "The news will be all over the forest now."

_It would have happened anyway_, I say, Dogwood translating. _Come on. We're almost there._

My guests all hover uncertainly at the top entrance to the house, but follow me and the children down the ladder. The little room is very crowded with everyone; they all stare at the cold fireplace, the shelves, the cooking rock, the bolts of fabric, the books, the bed, as though they've never seen anything like them before.

I've got to pull myself together. _Philomel, get the cups, _I say, and realize we don't have enough for everyone. _And Dogwood, you get the bowls. _I use the stool to step up and get the bottle of blackberry wine from the high shelf.

Philomel and Dogwood hand around the cups. We definitely don't have enough: the children and I will have to drink out of bowls, along with Vivienne. Well, of course: I've never had guests before. Maybe I'll ask Birch for more vessels.

My hand almost slips, pouring wine. Birch. How am I going to explain this to him?

The guests all wait until I've poured everyone a drink, watering down the children's wine. Cardan sips, and makes a slightly surprised face. "This is very good."

I eye him over my bowl's rim. I can't say for certain, but I think there's something different about Cardan. I struggle to pin down exactly what. It's not easy: I've barely given Prince Cardan Greenbriar a single fleeting thought in seven years, and even before I left Court I avoided him as much as possible. I'm no expert at reading him, and my memories are fuzzy.

But, as I remember him, Cardan was always very—tense. His shoulders were always stiff, as I recall, his mouth always twisted and cruel. Even when he was laughing at someone, or playing some cruel game and full of malicious glee, he never seemed really happy. Now…he seems much more relaxed. The tension's gone out of his shoulders, and his mouth doesn't look so tight. His eyes don't look so full of sneering wariness now, and he doesn't seem like he's constantly looking for an excuse to be vicious, as he did back in our schooldays. Of course, that may simply be because he's an adult now, instead of a thuggish adolescent. But what's he doing with Jude and Vivienne, not to mention Heather?

I set down my bowl. My head whirls with questions. I begin with the first that pops into my head. _How is Oriana?_ I ask.

Philomel translates, and looks up at me. "_Who _is Oriana?"

"She's our stepmother," Vivienne explains. "And she's been fine, mostly. Except she's been really worried about you." She looks at me sidelong. "You two were…really close, weren't you?"

I nod, biting my lip. I was so angry with her, for so long, after she threw me at Balekin. I still am, a bit. But the thought of Oriana worrying about me, Oriana in pain, stabs through me. She may not have been the perfect mother, but she truly cared for me.

"She doesn't know we're here." Jude gives Vivienne a strange, hard look. "Vivi moved Ironside after you disappeared, and she would only come back if we promised not to tell Madoc or Oriana she'd returned." She pauses. "Isn't that right, Vivienne?"

Heather looks a bit uncomfortable, and Vivienne stares down at the floor. "That's right."

I look between my glaring sister and my flushing one. There are dangerous currents here. Hastily, I move on to the next question: _How did you find me?_

Jude answers. "It's kind of an odd story…" She looks around in vain for a chair.

I motion at the bench by the cold fireplace. My guests sit down, awkwardly. I pull up the stool, while Dogwood and Philomel perch on the bed. The children and I wait, expectant.

"About two months ago," Jude begins, "there was a tournament. A lot of knights from different Courts came. I was in the lists, too, as one of Madoc's knights."

I have to interrupt, clapping my hands delightedly. "Congratulations!" Philomel translates. "Did you win lots of fights?" she asks eagerly on her own account.

"Not a lot, no," Jude says, smiling. "But enough. Anyway, after I fought, I was walking in the staging area when this Unseelie knight calls out to me.

"'Lady Healer?' she says, like she's very surprised. I'd taken my helmet off, and she was staring at me, looking amazed."

I think I know who this knight was. Heart sinking, I listen while Jude continues.

"I told her I wasn't any Lady Healer, and she said that was very strange. She was looking really shaken; just kept staring at me."

I leap to my feet and get the notebook. Everyone pauses while my pencil scribbles. _It was Dulcamara from the Court of Termites, wasn't it?_

"Yes," nods Jude. "I suppose she came this way?"

I nod, sighing.

"Really?" Philomel goggles at me. "You didn't tell _us_."

_It didn't seem important,_ I say, avoiding her gaze. _Let your aunt speak. _I gesture for Jude to continue.

"Anyway," she says, eyeing me and Philomel, "I asked her why it was so strange. She gave me this long look, and asked if I had any sisters.

"I said yes, I did: two of them, one living Ironside and one my twin, who I hadn't seen in years. And she got an even stranger look on her face. I asked her what her problem was; I was getting angry by then.

"She just said, 'Two weeks' sky-journey west from here, there is a valley, ringed by mountains, with a large blue lake in the middle. A river cascades over a cliff to pool in this lake before draining away underground. There a tribe of tree goblins lives, in a treetop village. Others live in this valley too. And that's all I can tell you, I'm afraid. My mouth is bound by oath.'"

Of course: I made Dulcamara promise not to tell anyone anything about me or the children—but that didn't include the valley, or the goblins. I sigh and rake my fingers through my hair.

Vivi watches, one eyebrow raised. "I guess she made that oath to you?"

"And found a way around it," Cardan adds, sounding a bit amused.

I nod, and scribble some more. _She came to me for healing. I made her promise not to reveal my location or anything about me to anyone, especially not at Court. _

"And her an Unseelie knight?" Jude lets out a long, impressed whistle. "That took courage."

"How come you never told _us_?" Dogwood demands of me indignantly. I spread my hands helplessly.

Cardan, meanwhile, is frowning at the page. "Healing?"

"Mommy's a healer," Philomel says proudly. "She has miraculous hands. Everyone comes to her to heal their wounds, and so their babies will live."

"What?" Cardan stares at me.

"Miraculous hands…?" Vivienne echoes, equally dumbfounded.

_Philomel, quiet, _I sign. _Let them finish the story first. _I gesture for Jude to continue once more.

"Anyway," Jude says, giving me her own puzzled look, "it was so unlikely, but I couldn't help hoping…it seemed like the only answer, even if I couldn't imagine what you were doing in a valley with forest goblins. I went to tell Cardan—"

I interrupt with a sharp gesture. I point between her and Cardan, tilting my head quizzically.

Their reactions are interesting, to say the least. Jude and Cardan both go bright red, while Heather smirks and Vivienne lets out a snort of laughter.

"Go on," she sniggers. "Tell her."

"There's nothing to tell," Jude says in a high, strangled voice, staring up the Tree trunk.

"Liar, liar, pants on fire," Vivienne singsongs. "They're lovers," she adds to me matter-of-factly. "Have been for years."

"Really, Vivienne," says Cardan in a would-be airy voice, "should you be so indelicate in front of the children?"

"Oh, I'm sure they're aware of the facts of life, aren't you?" Vivienne asks the kids, still chuckling.

Dogwood nods and Philomel says, "Sure. We've seen the goblins—"

_Philomel, hush! _I say, my face burning, and now everyone's snickering, including Philomel and Dogwood. Great. Now I'm a slovenly mother who lets her kids watch goblins going at it. Marvelous.

But I'm willing to bet my last can of salt that I'm not half as embarrassed as Jude and Cardan. They sit very stiffly, eyes trained upward, carefully not touching each other. Of course: after years of hating and persecuting someone, it must be rather humiliating to give way to a mutual passion while everyone laughs at you and says they saw it coming. But I can't say I'm surprised. In fact, looking back on it, I'd say I was one of the people who foresaw this.

_Congratulations! _I write, holding up my notebook with a big grin.

"Oh, shut up," Jude mutters. "This was _after _he'd moved in with us, and his behavior improved remarkably."

I frown, merriment fading. _How did that happen?_

Cardan's silent a long time, rotating his cup in his hand. "You know I used to live with my brother Balekin," he says at last.

I blink. I _did _know that, now that I think back, but I honestly never gave the matter a single thought, even when I was still at Court. That's much the same as not knowing—or not caring. Living with Balekin. A shudder runs through me. No wonder Cardan was such a petty bully at school. It doesn't excuse his behavior, not in any way, but I can certainly see how he turned out the way he did.

"Well," Cardan continues, a light, ironic tone in his voice, "after you disappeared, he acted very strange—stranger than usual, that is. Which is saying something. He was out with his hunters all the time looking for you, and nothing else interested him. Nothing. And he was at it for months."

Balekin. Looking for me. For months. The room tips. Vivienne gives me a quick, worried frown.

"Balekin?" Dogwood blinks. "Like _Prince _Balekin?"

"And did Aunt Jude just call you Cardan?" Philomel blinks at Cardan. "I thought you said your name was Connor."

"No, I said that's what you could _call_ me," he corrects. "My real name _is _Cardan, but I've been traveling in disguise to avoid any, ah, trouble."

"Are you the _prince_?" Philomel stares at him round-eyed.

"No, no, of course not!" Jude lies instantly. "Cardan and his brothers were just named after the Greenbriar princes, that's all."

"Really?" Dogwood is utterly astonished, eyes round. "_Why?_ Uncle Birch says that the Greenbriar princes are all a pack of worthless parasites who can't even father children and will lead Faerie into certain disaster—"

_Dogwood, that's enough! _I sign hastily, watching Cardan anxiously. He's gone a bit green. _We don't criticize the royal family in this house. And it's rude to say things like that about someone's namesake._

"Oh. Sorry," he says to Cardan in a chastened voice.

Cardan's still looking rather stiff, but he says, "Apology accepted—if you promise me something."

"What?" Dogwood asks, immediately wary. I half stand, just as anxious.

Cardan gives him an easy, charming grin. "Don't call me Cardan while I'm here, all right? Call me Connor. You too, Philomel. I don't want anyone thinking I'm the prince and causing us all trouble."

I let out a sigh of relief, even as I give Cardan a hard look. He smiles back urbanely.

"Okay," shrugs Dogwood. "I'll call you Connor while you're here."

"Me too," says Philomel. "I promise."

_Very good, _I say. _Now, why don't you both go outside?_ Not only should we avoid further antagonizing Cardan, but I have no wish for them to hear anything about Balekin. The very thought makes my palms sweat.

"Now?" blinks Dogwood.

"Yeah, I want to hear the rest of the story!" adds Philomel.

Vivienne sees my expression and stands up. "Not sure if your mother wants you to hear it. Come on, I'll take you outside."

"I'll come too," Heather adds, standing up.

The children hesitate, eyeing the strangers doubtfully. "Come on, we'll play a game," says Heather. "Where should we go?" she adds in an aside to me.

I get up to show her the ladder and the platform high above. Vivienne and Heather head over immediately, but the children hang back. "I want to hear," Philomel insists.

_I'll tell you later, I promise, _I say. _Now go with Aunt Vivi._

"'Vivi!'" she laughs, instantly diverted. "Her name's Vivienne!"

"Vivi's my nickname," Vivi says. "Come on, I'll tell you about it outside."

"I call her that all the time," says Heather, ushering her forward.

"Vivi!" giggles Philomel, scampering up the ladder.

I take a deep breath as they disappear, and another. My heart's still racing.

"What was that all about?" Jude asks slowly, frowning at me.

I grimace at her and grab the notebook. _I'm sorry about Dogwood_, I write to Cardan anxiously. _He's just a child._

"That's all right." He grins wryly. "I've had plenty of opportunities, over this journey, to discover just how unpopular my brothers and I really are."

"Big surprise," smirks Jude.

"Oh, do be quiet, Jude," he says serenely. "Anyway, Balekin was acting odd, and I was starting to wonder. I confronted him one night, asking why he was so fixated on you.

"He yelled at me, but I wouldn't shut up. I said I saw him with you, the night of the New Year ball—"

The bottom drops out of my stomach.

"—And asked if he knew anything about your disappearance. He wouldn't answer me. I became insistent.

"Finally, he grabbed me and smacked me a couple of times to shut me up. I thought he was going to beat me again, but instead he dragged me to the front door. 'If you can't keep from my business,' he said, 'then you have no place in my house.' Then he threw me out and locked the door behind me."

A moment's silence elapses. Jude looks unsurprised—she's clearly heard the story before—but I'm shaken. Balekin hit Cardan? And beat him? _Again_, Cardan said. Balekin beat Cardan _repeatedly_? Maybe even regularly. And then literally threw him out with nothing.

I feel a rush of shame. I never once thought about Cardan, living with a monster, when we were children. I never once gave a single thought or spared even the slightest pity for him, even after I learned firsthand what Balekin was truly like. I didn't give a single, solitary damn. Of course, I had no reason to care about Cardan's wellbeing when we were children—and after the assault I had problems of my own. But even so, there were others living with Balekin, too, besides Cardan. If Balekin was so brutal to his own brother, what must he be like to his _servants_? It doesn't bear thinking of.

If Cardan notices any of my emotions, he doesn't show it. "I was on my own," he says coolly, "and I learned very quickly that no one wants anything to do with a prince on his own, with no place at Court. Not even my so-called friends."

His mouth twists on who knows what memories. It's mean, but I can't resist a pinch of vindictive glee, remembering the Court of Fawning Sycophants. Well, well. So Cardan's "friends" weren't really his friends after all. What a surprise.

"The Court of Grackles fell apart amazingly quickly, with Cardan gone," Jude adds. "Locke's mother took him away from Court altogether. Said he needed to get his head on straight."

"Quite so," says Cardan coolly. "I, meanwhile, was living like a vagabond in my own father's Court, no home, no friends. Then Jude found me."

"He was trying to break into a house and steal some food," she confirms. "He'd vanished a few days earlier—hadn't been to class or anything—and no one would talk about him. So I was curious. I brought him back home and fed him, and he told me the whole story."

I stare, more surprised by this than anything else. Jude _hated _Cardan. Oh, she was attracted to him—anyone could see that—but I cannot imagine the Jude I knew reaching out to Cardan with the hand of friendship.

Of course, it might not have been friendship exactly. More—possessiveness. The bond between them was just too strong for her to let him suffer—unless it was by her hand.

"She put me to bed in one of the guestrooms," Cardan says. "I asked what would happen if one of the servants found me, and she told me not to ask stupid questions, didn't you, Jude?" He gives her a poke. "And then what happened? I woke up with one of the maids shrieking her head off at the sight of me!"

"And no wonder," says Jude, rolling her eyes in scorn. "The sight of you naked is enough to scare anyone."

"_You _never seem to mind," he smirks.

"Which proves I am stronger and more courageous than any faerie," she says smoothly, and turns pointedly to me. "Anyhow, Madoc and Oriana got involved. Cardan and I explained what he was doing there, and they said he could stay. But they also said that I was his sponsor in their house, and if he said or did anything in any way hurtful or prejudicial to my interests, they'd throw him out."

"Actually," says Cardan wryly, "_everyone _said that. All of Madoc's retainers and his servants, right down to the kitchen maids. They each had a different threat. My favorite was Tatterfell's." He straightens, his voice effortlessly taking on Tatterfell's tone. "'I don't care if you _are_ a prince, you nasty boy: keep persecuting Miss Jude and the retribution will make your grandfather's assassination look like a tea party!'"

I let out a silent laugh. Jude rolls her eyes. "Well, what did you expect? You bullying me and Taryn made you about as popular as the plague in our house."

"So I gathered," Cardan sighs. "I had nowhere else to go, and it was fairly clear that I'd better improve my behavior if I wanted to stay. So I did." He casts Jude a sidelong glance. "Actually, Jude behaved remarkably well, too. I thought for sure you were going to torment me and get revenge for the way I treated you."

"You would have thoroughly deserved it if I had," she says coolly. "But it was enough that you were under my power. I'm no petty faerie, to kick someone around just because I can."

Another dig about being better than a faerie. It seems to be a thing between them, because Cardan just grins. "Come on," he says, "you were lonely, too, with Taryn and Vivienne both gone. Admit it."

_Vivi left? _I write.

Jude's face darkens. "Yes," she says shortly. "Right after you disappeared. She went to go live with Heather on the Ironside. She decided you were dead and there was no point in staying in Faerie." She pauses. "Actually, she and Madoc had a bad fight about that."

_They're always fighting, _I point out, confused.

"No." She shakes her head. "A _bad_ fight. _Very _bad. Madoc told Vivienne she had no right to leave when her sister was missing and Vivi should be helping him look for you. And Vivi yelled back that you were dead and it was all his fault, for bringing you to Faerie in the first place. 'You as good as killed Taryn!' she told him. 'Maybe she killed herself or maybe some evil scut of a faerie murdered her, but either way her blood is on your hands, just like our parents'.'"

I can imagine how Madoc reacted to _that._ I wince a little.

"Just so," Jude says wryly. "If Oriana hadn't intervened, I honestly think they would have killed each other. Vivi left for the Ironside right after that, not even stopping to pack. She wanted me to go, too." Her face hardens. "But I wouldn't. I _knew _you weren't dead. I tried to tell Vivienne, but she wouldn't listen. She wanted to go. Almost like…like your death was the excuse she'd been waiting for."

Jude's face is clouded with old anger. Clearly she hasn't forgiven Vivi for this. My heart clenches a little with distress. Of all the consequences resulting from my disappearance, I never imagined this: a rift between my sisters, lasting years.

_I don't blame her, _I write hastily. And it's true, I don't. _I figured she'd leave. What happened after you talked to Dulcamara?_

Jude takes a long breath. "I never stopped looking for you, Taryn," she says in a low voice. "I never stopped hoping. So when I got Dulcamara's hint, I had to take it. Cardan and I got in contact with Vivienne, and then Heather insisted on coming along."

"Turns out she'd figured out Vivienne was a faerie a long time ago," Cardan confirms. "Smart girl, Heather—for a mortal."

"So Vivi and Heather came back to Faerie secretly, and we all sneaked away from Court in the dead of night," Jude continues, ignoring this magnificently.

My hand trembles a little as I write. _Did you tell Madoc?_

"No," Jude shakes her head. "He might have forbidden us to try. Or insisted on coming too." She gives me a quick look. "He's been really upset about you, you know. He never stopped looking either. He's been worried sick."

I feel a small tug of guilt—for I haven't missed Madoc even a little, let alone worried about him—but it's swamped under the wave of relief that leaves my limbs weak. They didn't tell Madoc. He doesn't know. Thank the Trees. I let out a sigh, closing my eyes in gratitude.

"I take it from your expression," Cardan says dryly, eyeing me closely, "that this was the right decision?"

I nod fervently. _I never want to see him again._

Jude blinks at this, disconcerted, but Cardan nods. "Can't say I blame you." His tone turns dry and bitter again. "Anyway, the General's become a bit too cozy with Balekin. They've been allies of a sort, since you disappeared. We didn't think it was such a good idea for my dear brother to know about our little quest."

"No," agrees Jude, collecting herself from her surprise. "Anyway, we followed Dulcarma's directions and came out here. It wasn't easy getting here, but Cardan was surprisingly useful—for a faerie prince. And it turned out Heather knows a lot about riding and camping. So we made it, and found you, and…" She shrugs. "Here we all are."

A silence falls, broken only by the children's happy shouts up on the platform. They seem to be playing some new game with Heather and Vivienne, that involves shouting, "Duck, duck, goose."

I swallow. My hand trembles again as I write out the question I'm both desperate and dreading to ask Cardan: _What did you see at the ball?_

He gives me an odd look. "I saw Balekin escorting you off on your own. You were drunk. And then you disappeared completely, as though you'd vanished into thin air. It seemed, shall we say, rather strange."

"Yes," says Jude. "What happened?"

I can't look at them. I stare down at the beaten earth floor. A strange weakness trembles through my limbs. Everything feels fragile, thin, like it's about to fly apart.

Then, oh mercy, I'm saved. Heather calls down the Tree. "Hey, uh, Taryn—Albia—there's a faerie up here with a dead rabbit who says he knows you. His name's Birch, he says."

Birch! I jump to my feet, heart lightening. This will all be easier with Birch's help.

But when I climb out onto the platform, Birch is standing stiff, holding a freshly killed rabbit and eyeing Vivienne and Heather suspiciously, even as the children hop around him, happy and excited. "Uncle Birch, Uncle Birch!" says Philomel. "These are our Aunts Vivienne, Heather and Jude, and Uncle Connor. They're Mommy's family!"

"They taught us this great new game," Dogwood says happily. "Duck, Duck, Goose. Come on, you have to play!"

"Later, Dogwood," Birch says distractedly, looking over Jude and Cardan as they climb up behind me. He bows without putting down the rabbit or taking his eyes off any of the newcomers. "Hello. You must have traveled far."

There's a note of suspicion in his voice, and something else, something darker and harder to define. I feel a surge of annoyance. _It's all right, Birch, really. They're my family: Jude and Vivienne are my sisters, and Heather and Connor are their partners. They've come a long way to see me._

"Indeed," he says stiffly, inclining his head. "I'm Birch of the Red Branch Tribe of forest goblins, and I'm Albia's friend." He says it almost like a threat. "I didn't know Albia had any family."

"It's complicated," Vivienne says. "Can you understand her sign language, Birch?"

"Of course. She taught me." Birch continues to stare unsmiling at my guests. "Where did you all come from?"

"From Court," says Jude, again not specifying which one. "Connor and I are both courtiers, and Heather and Vivienne live Ironside."

"Court?" Birch steps back, now staring at me. "The same Court you came from, Albia?"

_Yes, _I say, avoiding his eyes. I point at the rabbit. _Did you kill that yourself?_

He shakes his head. "I sold old Flintbone a set of traps on the condition that every third kill is mine for the first three years. I thought you and the kids could have this one for your dinner." He switches to sign language. _You have to tell Heartwood._

For a confused instant I wonder if he's talking about the rabbit, but I quickly realize what he means. Of course: I can't have four strangers to stay without Heartwood's knowledge. I nod.

"What's going on?" demands Jude, starting to get annoyed.

Birch hides a small smirk as he turns to her. "We're going to present you to Chieftainess Heartwood of the Red Branch," he says. "As Albia's family, of course. Heartwood is leader of our tribe and has to know of any newcomers, however welcome." Something in his mild tone makes it clear that this welcome does not come from all quarters. "Why don't we go now?"

"Now?" Heather says, blinking.

"No time like the present." Somehow, Birch has insinuated himself between me and the children and our visitors, blocking my guests off. Dogwood, sensing the sudden tension, slips his hand into mine. I squeeze it, glaring at Birch's back. Why is he _doing _this? I know he's not fond of strangers or courtiers, but this is my family. Can't he make an effort?

"Let's all go." Birch turns back to me and, hidden by his own body, signs to me discreetly. _Albia, are these really your family?_

_I said so, didn't I? _Annoyance makes my fingers jerky. _Why are you being like this?_

His jaw tightens, crest rising. _I'm worried. You never mentioned family before._

_ There's plenty _you _don't mention. _This is true, but I regret the words the moment they leave my hands.

His red eyes flash hurt, but he lowers his head and crest in acquiescence and begins to lead us along the treeway, back stiff. Philomel scurries up to me. "What was _that _all about?" she asks in a clearly audible whisper. I can practically feel my sisters' eyebrows rise.

_Nothing_, I say. _Uncle Birch is just worried, that's all. He thought maybe our guests had bad intentions._

"Bad intentions?" Dogwood says loudly. He gives our guests a nervous look over his shoulder. "What's bad intentions?"

"Something _we_ didn't bring with us," Vivienne says loudly. "We're here in peace, to visit our sister, we swear. We mean no harm to any."

I look to see if Birch is reassured by this, but his shoulders don't relax.

The village lounges in its usual midday hush: everyone is either out working or taking siesta in their houses. It's amusing to see my visitors, even Cardan, stare around in wide-eyed wonder at our ordinary little treetop settlement: was _I _ever such a rube? I fight down an unworthy little smirk as I lead them past the Knot to where Heartwood sits in the sunshine outside her house, smoking and dozing.

"You again, Birch?" she says without opening her eyes. "And Albia and the kids too, I smell. And several others."

"Chieftainess Heartwood." Birch bows correctly. "The Lady Healer has had some unexpected guests. They hail from—"

"A Court, I know," she finishes for him, still half asleep. "That's why I've had them tailed for the last three miles." She waves her pipe lazily and lets out a shrill whistle.

The treetops shiver and shush as the goblin scouts emerge, throwing off their spells of invisibility and camouflage, revealing their arrows and slings. Jude swears and draws her sword, Vivienne and Cardan both prepare spells, and Heather draws out an Ironside knife, looking scared but determined. The children clutch me.

"Oh, please." Heartwood's fully awake now, standing up and waving her hand. "There's no need for that. If my boys had decided you were a threat, they would have eliminated you a mile back, I promise you."

"They may have found _that _difficult," sneers Cardan, magic wreathing around his fingers.

Heartwood eyes him mildly. "Arrogant little whelp, aren't you?" she says without heat. "But not without some power, it would seem." She sucks at her pipe and lets out a curl of smoke. "Tell me, what brings a Gentry lord to our insignificant little corner of the forest?"

Vivienne steps forward to curtsy low. "Lady Chieftainess, we apologize sincerely if we gave you or your people any cause for alarm. My name is Vivienne, and this is my lover, Heather." Heather nods, looking nervous.

Jude sheathes her sword and steps up. "I am Jude Duarte, Chieftainess, and this is my lover, Connor." "Connor" gives a saturnine bow. "We mean no harm to any, but merely came to visit our sister, whom we have not seen in seven years and have sorely missed."

Heartwood eyes her. "The Unicorn-Blessed has never mentioned sisters before. Indeed, the story in the valley is that she was kidnapped by a nobleman to be his wife, and he then shamefully abandoned her in the forest, after stealing her voice away, and left her to have his child alone."

I can feel my family staring at me. I don't turn around.

"We were all kidnapped," Vivienne says at last. "All three of us sisters, long ago. We haven't seen or heard from—Albia—since she vanished from Court, and have worried for her extremely."

"I can believe that." Heartwood sits back with a sigh, sounding suddenly weary. "I don't normally allow courtiers into my valley, when given the choice. Generally they bring no good with them."

"What about Tar—Albia, then?" Jude demands, as though she just can't help herself. "She came from a Court too, you know."

"I know." Heartwood turns her gaze on my sister, slightly amused. "But Albia came on the back of the unicorn, one of the great ones of Faerie. And Thistleweft, who lived among us for centuries in high regard, stood her guarantor. And Albia has since proved herself invaluable. Half my tribe owe their lives to her. You, on the other hand, have no powerful guarantor, and have not proven your intent of peace."

_I will stand their guarantor, _I say, stepping forward and curtsying. _As Thistleweft did for me. This is my family. I truly believe they mean no harm, and have only come to visit me._ At least, I hope that's all they want, though I have a nasty feeling that my sisters at least have other plans.

"I too will stand guarantor," says Birch, to my surprise.

Heartwood pauses a moment more before saying, "Very well." The goblin warriors all back down, lowering their weapons, and my guests all relax, slowly. "Birch and Albia will be the guarantors of your good behavior while in this valley," Heartwood tells my family. "You are their guests, and honored as such. Any violence or hostile behavior will be punished, though, I promise you."

Vivienne curtsies again. "Very well, Chieftainess."

The others, including Cardan, all follow suit. Cardan straightens from his bow. "You'll pardon me, Chieftainess—but exactly how has Mistress Albia proven herself invaluable?"

Heartwood just grins. Leaning back, she brings her hands together in a ringing clap. "Come on out, everyone! It's safe now, more or less."

Instantly the houses all burst open and goblins swarm out. The canopy comes alive with the tribe, putting aside their spells of concealment and camouflage, swinging down to land on the platform. They crowd around, staring and poking at my guests. "This is your family, Albia? Really? You never told _us _you had family! What are your names? Where do you come from?"

My guests stand tense, faces fixed, as the crowd gathers in. I have to grin at how alarmed they are, and sign. "It's okay, really!" Philomel translates, laughing. "No one means any harm."

"_Another _mortal!" says Feverfew, poking at Heather. "You can go centuries without a single one, and suddenly they're everywhere!"

"You're full of surprises, Lady Healer," says Bilberry, shaking his head.

"Lady Healer?" Jude raises her voice. "What does that mean?"

Knowing smirks travel around the crowd. "Didn't you know?" says Bilberry. He turns to me, grinning. "Show her, Albia!"

"Yeah, Albia! Show her!" The goblins all chime in. Only Birch, standing back with his arms folded, looks less than enthusiastic.

"Show us what?" Jude asks, bewildered.

Turning to her, I gesture at her left hand, signaling that she raise it. Hesitantly, she does so.

There it is: the missing finger that cost me so much. The wound has long healed, of course, but the digit is still missing. I lay my own callused hands on my sister's, and summon the unicorn's gift.

The white light flashes, and Jude jerks back as the onlookers cheer. I have a flash of insight into the magic: regenerating the bone, muscle twining around it, blood pumping in, the nail growing, skin filming over—

Jude cries out and staggers back, holding her hand before her. Her whole, completely healed hand, not a single digit missing.

The goblins all cheer. Heartwood smiles smugly. "That's our Lady Healer," she says with great satisfaction. "The Unicorn-Blessed."

"The Unicorn-Blessed?" Vivienne sounds dumbfounded.

"That's right," says Philomel proudly. "The unicorn blessed Mommy with healing powers!"

"Miraculous hands…" Heather shakes her head, staring between me and the still-astonished Jude.

"An amazing power," Cardan breathes. He bows to me, a great flowing gesture. "My congratulations, Lady Healer."

Jude is still staring at her hand, mesmerized. Without lowering it, she looks past it toward me. Her eyes are wide and full of warring emotion.

"Taryn…you healed me," she says. "I…What…" She leans in, voice becoming harder, more intent. "This gift can't have come free," she whispers. "What did you pay for it?"

I look away, where Philomel is already off playing with her friends, hair a white silken banner among the stiff quills of the goblin children. Jude will never know what I paid for this gift. No one ever will.

Off to the side, apart from the cheering crowd, I see a still figure. It's Birch, standing with arms folded, away from everyone. He, alone of all the tribe, does not look happy to see me demonstrating my gift to outsiders. He sees me looking and turns away, and I find myself staring at his back, across an unbridgeable gap.

"Uncle Connor?" says Dogwood shyly. It's night now, and we're making dinner back at the cottage.

"Yes?" says Cardan, sitting upright on the bench and eyeing my son sidelong.

Dogwood pauses a moment, gathering his words. "You have a tail."

Cardan looks at his tail, dangling off the bench's edge, its tuft lashing a little in the lamplight. "Ah…yes. Yes, I do."

Across the cooking rock, Vivienne catches my eye, and we both bite down giggles.

"_I_ don't have a tail," Dogwood says sadly. "I'm only half goblin, you see. My ankles don't work right either."

Flipping over pancakes, I have to fight down more giggles. The look on Cardan's face! Still, it's good to see Dogwood interacting as Vivienne and I make supper and the evening settles on the house.

"Your ankles look fine to me," says Cardan, obviously wondering how he ended up in this surreal conversational quagmire.

"Yeah, but they don't rotate!" Philomel says, bouncing up from a game with Jude and Heather. "That's 'cause his mother was a hob, not a goblin. He can't climb so easily or anything."

"Shut up, Melly!" Dogwood flashes his quills at her in warning.

"He can't swing through the branches, either," Philomel sings, "because he doesn't have a tail!"

"Well, _I_ can't swing through the trees either," says Cardan. "My tail's not built for that. In fact, it's fairly useless for everything." He gives it a flick. "It's just there."

"Oh," says Dogwood sympathetically. "Was _your _mother a hob too?"

"No," says Cardan after a moment. Now everyone but him and the children are fighting down laughter.

I transfer the last of the pancakes to the plate, and start handing it around. The cakes disappear rapidly, along with my berry preserves and more of my wine. I check a sigh. Feeding four extra people is going to burn through my stores. For the first time, I wonder how long my guests plan on staying.

Jude takes a cautious bite of pancake. "So…did this Thistleweft teach you to cook, Taryn?"

_That's right, _I sign, Dogwood translating. _She took me in when I first came to the valley. After her death, she left me the cottage, and I adopted her son._ I lay my hand gently on Dogwood's shoulder.

"That was kind of her." Jude shifts uncomfortably. "But…have you been doing _all _your own housework?"

I have to smile at her tone of horror: horror that I have no servant to cook and clean for me. _Of course! __There's no one else to do it. _Perhaps now isn't the best time to tell Jude that I _was_ the servant.

Jude looks around at my one-room cottage, and I know she's comparing it with Madoc's luxurious stronghold with its vast array of chambers and army of servants. "You've had to do everything yourself? Not one servant?"

"Honestly, Jude, it's hardly a fate worse than death," says Vivi, voicing my own thoughts.

"Yeah, Vivi and I do our own chores," says Heather mildly. "It's not that difficult, if you have a small house." She shrugs. "Though I admit, we do have labor-saving devices."

"What are labor-saving devices?" Philomel asks in fascination, and Heather begins to describe dishwashers, vacuum cleaners, and other human household technology.

Under the cover of conversation, Jude leans into me. "Taryn, have you really been living here alone all this time?"

I give her a look and gesture at the children.

She makes an impatient noise in her throat. "You know what I mean." In her lap, she keeps running her thumb over her restored finger.

I shrug and nod.

She sits back, staring at me, for a long moment. "Taryn," she whispers, lower and more urgent than ever, "what _happened_? The night you disappeared?" Beyond her, I can see Cardan surreptitiously looking over.

I sit frozen. The curse will halt any attempt I make to explain. And, if I'm honest, I'm not sure I would explain, even if I could.

Jude's got that look again, that look I remember. It always unnerved me; it reminds me far too much of Madoc in one of his scheming moods. "It's something to do with your voice, isn't it? What happened that night…it took your voice away, didn't it?"

I can't nod, can't do anything. She sighs. "It's okay, Taryn."

Her hand squeezes my shoulder briefly. I wish I could take her reassurance at face value, but I see the glance she exchanges with Cardan. She's not done investigating yet, and neither is he.

"…Sure I can show you some human technology." Now Heather is taking some small metallic object from her pack and showing it to the kids. "I brought this along. It's a digital camera." She shows them the little panels on the sides. "Solar-powered!"

"What does it _do_?" Dogwood asks, staring in fascination.

"It takes pictures! See, like this…" My children crowd in as Heather shows them the screen, how to aim the camera, and the button to push. They crow in delight as the picture of the fireplace shows up in the screen. "The camera saves the picture, and when I get back to Earth, I'll download the pictures on the Internet."

"What?" Philomel stares blankly.

"I'll remove the pictures from the camera and store them to use later," Heather explains. "I use digital pictures a lot in my art these days."

"Wow," breathes Dogwood, still gazing rapturously at the camera. "Can I take a picture of _you_, Aunt Heather?"

"Sure! Just push that button like I showed you…" Heather poses while Dogwood, giggling, takes several pictures, followed by Philomel. Then they all gather around to look at Heather's various portraits on the camera screen.

I watch the scene in bemusement, spatula dangling forgotten in my hand. Vivienne shakes her head resignedly. "She's been like this the whole way," she whispers to me. "I've had to stop her from photographing every single faerie we met."

"Hey," Heather protests, "this is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, you know! And I was kind of surprised faeries even show up in a digital picture."

"Oooh!" Philomel claps her hands in sudden delight. "Can you take _our_ pictures, Aunt Heather?"

"Yeah!" Dogwood's crest stands straight up in sudden excitement. "Take pictures of us!"

Panic surges in me. _No! _I shake my head vehemently, throwing myself between my children and that camera. _Absolutely not! _The last thing we need is for pictures of the Lost Heir to be floating around, in either world.

"Oh, come on, Mommy!" wails Philomel. "Why not?"

"Yeah, why not?" cries Dogwood.

I stare at them, literally unable to explain. Behind them, our guests watch, eyes gleaming with curiosity and confusion.

_Because I said so, _I finally fall back on that old maternal argument. _Now stop bothering Aunt Heather and let's have dinner._

They groan, but head obediently over to the cook rock. I turn to glower at Heather until she puts that infernal thing away, confused but compliant. I catch her throwing Vivienne a questioning glance. Vivi shrugs, but looks at me for a long, long moment.

After supper, Jude and Vivienne do the dishes. Surreptitiously, Jude flexes her soapy hands, still staring at her healed finger. I turn away, the sight inspiring an odd mixture of shame and satisfaction.

Heather, meanwhile, unrolls bedrolls on the floor, while Cardan touches each one, inciting spells of softness, safety and warmth. He looks up, eyes gleaming in the light, and suddenly I back away, heart pounding.

I can't help it: I glance at my bed, with its curtain, its covers of woven sunlight and fluffy white pillows. Cardan may be a prince traveling incognito, but he's still a prince. A _Greenbriar _prince. And I am the mistress of the house where he is staying.

It's his right to sleep in my bed. With me.

"What?" says Philomel, picking up on the sudden tension. "What's the matter?"

Heather looks puzzled too, but Jude and Vivienne have both frozen, eyes wide. They've remembered too. We all look at Cardan, waiting for his next move.

The old Cardan would have given that horrible smile, made some nasty comment, and then gone to bed with me. Oh, he probably wouldn't have actually insisted on sex—whatever else he was, he was never a rapist—but he would have held the threat over my head, and over Jude's, just for the sick pleasure of watching us squirm.

This new Cardan clears his throat. "I've been sleeping in a bedroll for two weeks now, Mistress Albia," he says, voice very clear and formal. "Out in the forest. I'm sure I shall be very comfortable continuing to do so here on your floor."

Relief washes through me, leaving me weak-kneed. I let out a silent, grateful sigh as Cardan turns away, continuing to prepare the bedrolls. Jude and Vivienne both give sighs of relief as well, and continue work. Heather hovers, still frowning in confusion. "What was that all about?"

"Yeah?" echoes Dogwood. "What was that?"

Cardan nudges his shoulder. "Tell you when you're older, kid. Are those some human picture books I spy? Oh, my, _Alice in Wonderland_? Lead me to them."

I watch in bemusement as he heads over to the bookshelves, the children clustering around him. He exclaims over our book collection with every evidence of interest and delight, turning pages and pointing out pictures to the children. I shake my head: I never thought I would see _Cardan_ in such an idyllic scene, playing with my children.

"Yeah." Jude is at my side, hands still wet, smiling with me. "Turns out Cardan loves books written by mortals. Who knew, right?"

I shrug and throw up my hands, indicating that life is mysterious indeed, and together we laugh, for a moment sisters.


	12. Chapter 12: Secrets

Secrets

It's like a holiday.

The house is crowded with my guests, but there's no denying that they make themselves useful. I've suddenly got four pairs of hands helping me with the housework—well, all right, three. Cardan is utterly useless at chores. But he's amazingly good with the kids. He plays with them for hours, far longer and more patiently than I ever would have expected, and even lets Philomel play with his hair.

"Snail shells and thistle seeds in your hair," Jude says as Philomel finishes her latest braid. "Nice work, Melly: he looks fabulous." She smirks at Cardan over Philomel's head.

Philomel beams. "He does, doesn't he?"

"Tell you what, Philomel," says Cardan, a gleam in his eye. "Why don't you braid up your Aunt Jude? She has a lot more hair than I do."

"No!" Jude cries, but she's overruled, everyone else clamoring her down. We all let Philomel at her head, and laugh ourselves sick at the results.

"You people are awful," she says, brushing aside a clacking braid.

"Faeries always get revenge," says Cardan smugly.

My laughter fades at this, as it stirs up old, dark memories. I eye him somberly. I've kept an anxious watch on him with the children—for I have not forgotten his own behavior as a child—but he shows no signs whatsoever of bullying or meanness. Jude really _has _had an effect on him, I'm forced to admit.

Of course, I'd never let the kids out of my sight with Cardan if it weren't for Birch. He comes by every day, ostensibly to check in on the guests he's guaranteed, but in reality, I think, to keep an eye on them. He never lets Cardan, or anyone else, go off with the children alone, but follows along, beaming at the kids and glaring at the guest.

"What's _his _problem?" Vivienne asks me on the second morning, watching Birch shadow Cardan and the kids around the clearing. He's already grumpily refused to let Heather photograph him. "It's almost like he _wants _Cardan to threaten them, just so he can attack him."

I shake my head, even though I secretly agree. _Birch doesn't trust Court faeries,_ I write in the notebook. _No one here does._

Heather, having wandered back over, reads over my shoulder. "How'd _you _get their trust, then? They must've seen you were from a Court."

Before I can answer, a figure appears, limping through the trees. Standing up, I hold out my hands in greeting while Cardan freezes and the kids scamper forward. Jude, emerging from the house, pauses, reaching for her sword.

It's a frog-faerie, hopping painfully on a lame leg. She hesitates, staring at the crowd. "Is this the house of the Unicorn-Blessed?" she says nervously. "I…thought you lived here with only your children."

"They're our guests!" Philomel laughs. "Mommy's family. What's the matter?"

"It's my leg." She holds out a spotted limb as I hurry forward, my guests peering interestedly. "I cut it on a metal pipe, swimming on the Ironside. So much trash there these days…Can you help, Lady Healer?"

Concealing my pleasure at the faerie's deference and my family's obvious astonishment, I nod and lay my hands on the faerie's wound. A flash of unicorn light, and the wound seals closed.

The frog-faerie lets out a long, ribbiting sigh of relief. "Ah, Lady Healer, you're a marvel." She fidgets. "What will you take in repayment? I have very little, but I can do your family's laundry for the next month." She eyes my guests. "Maybe—ah—just you and your children?" she says in a low voice.

I half-grin. _Yes_, I write in the notebook._ How often can you come?_ We work out the details while the kids wander off and my guests continue to stare.

When we're finished, the frog nods nervously at my well-armed, powerful visitors. "Good day to you."

"Wait a sec!" Heather brandishes her camera. "Can I take a picture of you? I've never seen a faerie like you before. I'll give you this bracelet in exchange." She brandishes a woven-thread bracelet. It turns out she brought dozens of them, as part of a surprisingly far-sighted and prudent preparation for travel in Faerie Land.

"Aunt Heather makes some good bracelets!" Philomel shows her own decorated wrist. "She's been teaching me and Dogwood." Dogwood nods, holding up his own bracelet.

"Um, all right." The frog-faerie takes the bracelet and shyly poses for her portrait. She then hops off, far more energetically this time, and soon disappears in the direction of the river.

Jude lets out a long whistle. "So that's how you've been earning your living," she says. "All the sick and injured faeries come to you, don't they?"

I nod, beaming, and behind Cardan, Birch smirks proudly. "She's our very own Lady Healer. No other valley has anyone like her," he adds boastfully.

I look at him, oddly hurt. Is that all I am? But why should I be unhappy with that? Birch is right: I'm valued for my gift, and rightly so. I try to shake off the weird unhappiness.

"She saves babies, too!" Philomel bounces around. "When they're born sickly and deformed, she can heal them so they live. Like you, Dogwood!"

Dogwood nods solemnly. "I was the first faerie she ever healed."

"That's right." Birch gently shepherds him and Philomel away. "Now, why don't you go make some more bracelets with your Aunt Heather…?"

"I wish you'd stop photographing every faerie you meet," Vivi mutters to Heather as they shepherd the kids away.

"Hey, I'm getting some great footage here. There might be an exhibit in this!"

I glower at her as she goes by, and point at the camera: don't you dare take any pictures of my kids. She holds up her hands innocently, but I glare meaningfully until they shuffle back indoors. I turn away then, only to catch Jude's thoughtful eye.

Cardan clears his throat. "Perhaps you too have other things you need to do, Birch…?"

Birch gives him a glowering smile. "Nothing that can't wait. Connor."

I give him an exasperated look—why is he being _like _this?—which he returns with a serene gaze.

But aside from the continued annoyance of Birch's behavior and the threat of Heather's camera, the next few days are wonderful. I never realized how much I missed my sisters until I had them back. Now, whether we're gathering fruits or swimming in the river and I'm showing them the secret places of the forest or introducing them to the local faeries, I can't resist my swoops of delight, just seeing them every day, watching their reactions to everything, listening to them talk, playing with the children. Best of all, since I don't have a voice, it's easy to avoid having the several serious conversations I know they're dying to have with me. It's very difficult to hold a heart-to-heart with someone who can consistently rely on silence as an ally.

But not, alas, impossible.

"Taryn," says Vivienne one day as we are all sitting on the platform in the sun. The kids are showing Heather and Cardan how to weave baskets, with much giggling and bossy directions from Philomel. "Taryn, have you thought about what we should do next?"

I give her a blank look. Next?

She shifts closer. "Well, now that we've found you," she says, "we need to decide what we're going to do." At my look, she makes an impatient noise. "Come on, Taryn, you can't just _stay _here!"

_Why not? _My pencil scratches with indignant defiance. _We've been here seven years!_

"I know, but…" She sighs. "Taryn, this can't go on forever."

I fold my arms, tossing my hair back, and scowl at her.

"She's right, you know," says Jude. That Madoc-scheming look is back. "We were told of your location by an Unseelie knight. If she told us, you can bet she's found a way to tell her own king. It's only a matter of time before some Court comes for the miraculous Lady Healer."

I feel a chill as the fears that Dulcamara outlined for me come back. _I'm mortal. They can't take me against my will._

"They can take your children," says Vivienne sharply. "That law doesn't protect _them_."

My heart seizes as that terror grabs at me again. My eyes stray to them, sitting in the sun, Dogwood patiently correcting Heather's work while Philomel hums a spell that weaves her fibers together without the help of her hands. I squeeze my eyes shut against the awful vision of them being carried off.

"Yeah," says Jude grimly. "I wouldn't want to see that either."

"You should come with me back Ironside," Vivienne says quietly. "All three of you. You'd be safer there, out of Eldred's kingdom."

I catch Jude's eye, and we both sigh. There was never any use in trying to get Vivienne to understand why we couldn't go back. _I can't earn a living there,_ I say, sticking to practicalities. _Dogwood can't go either. He can't pass for human, and he can't cast a glamour to hide himself. _

"Oh," Jude gives a cynical chuckle, "you'd be surprised." At my inquiring look, she rolls her eyes. "Mortals are marvelous at making up explanations. You don't have to do a thing. They'd probably tell themselves Dogwood had a skin condition or something."

Vivienne sighs, but nods. "That's probably true. But…he's a Mirror, Jude. No magic."

Jude nods reluctantly. She and Vivienne both know that Ironside is dangerous enough for an ordinary faerie. For an Echo, unable to cast a glamour, or to defend himself with native magic, it's lethal.

"Well, then," says Jude, "maybe you could all come back to the High Court—"

Vehemently, I shake my head. _I am __never__ going back there!_ I underline the word "never" so violently that my pencil rips the page.

"Why not?" Jude's face is honestly confused. "You'd be welcome as a unicorn-blessed healer. And Madoc and Oriana would be so happy to see you again." Her voice softens over this last. "They really have missed you, you know."

My heart squeezes at this, but I still shake my head. _I'm not going back to Court. I'm not going back to Madoc. Ever._

"He really loves you, Taryn," she insists.

Now it's Vivienne's eye I catch, and we exchange exasperated looks. Jude was always like this, I remember, always making up excuses for Madoc, always taking his side, always insisting that he loved us really. Vivienne used to speculate that it was because we were so helpless without Madoc, that she instinctively turned to the one person who could protect us. But, really, I think it's much simpler than that: Jude just _likes _Madoc. She always did. She's always been his favorite, and he's always been her father and mentor, in a way he never was for me, and certainly not for Vivi.

"You don't miss him at all, do you?" Jude says eventually.

I smile. Putting down my notebook, I stretch my arms above my head, raising my face happily to the light, eyes closed, before bringing them down in wide arcs, indicating my blissful, Madoc-free existence. I sigh deeply.

Vivienne giggles, and Jude scowls. "Well, how about Oriana, then? I know you two were close."

I bite my lip at this, but shake my head. _Not even for her._ After all, Oriana was the one who saw Balekin was after me, and didn't do a thing to protect me. And nothing is worth exposing the children, especially Philomel, to the High Court.

Cardan, having abandoned his basket-weaving efforts, wanders over. "What are you three sisters cackling about?"

"We're trying to convince Taryn to come home," says Jude. "Why don't you put that silver tongue of yours to good use for once and help us?"

"Why would I do that?" He lounges against a tree branch. "I wouldn't recommend Court to anyone right now."

My ears prick, and I look at him inquiringly.

"Haven't you heard?" He glances at me. "King Eldred's dying."

I nod slowly, and look at him thoughtfully. I guess this might represent another, rather more urgent reason why Prince Cardan may have wanted to leave Court at this time. _Do you think he might not recover? _I write cautiously.

"Who knows?" Cardan says neutrally. "But Eldred's spirit grows old and tired. He longs for the Land of Promise."

I can't help looking around nervously, hoping no one's close enough to hear us speculate on the King's death. But Jude has no such compunctions. "The question," she whispers, eyes agleam, "is who inherits after him?"

I hope my expression is suitably nonchalant and no one notices my sudden cold sweat. I paint on a mildly interested, mildly nervous expression. Oh, no, of course I don't have any personal interest in who inherits the throne, no sir. I'm certainly not dreading the thought of Balekin gaining the crown of Faerie, for example…

Cardan's smile curves like a lynx's. "Certainly not his youngest son," he says sleekly. "Eldred has little regard for his youngest's qualities."

"And he doesn't want to inherit anyway," Jude adds, giving him a pointed look, as though she disapproves of his lack of ambition.

Cardan stretches like a cat, raising his arms toward the sun. "Certainly not," he says peacefully. "That throne is nothing but trouble. The witch's curse, disguised as a blessing. No, most at Court believe he will choose his middle son, Prince Dain, to rule after him."

I sag with relief. Of course, of course. Eldred never cared for Balekin. And no one but me knows any reason why Balekin might be a favored contender…I watch as Philomel holds out her completed basket, Lulu the ragdoll lounging within it, while she begs for Heather's admiration, hair glowing in the sun.

"Oh?" says Vivienne. "And what about the Lost Heir?"

Jude laughs shortly. "I doubt Eldred is going to leave his throne to an unfounded rumor, Vivi."

Sweating, I straighten and clap my hands. Dogwood and the Lost Heir both scramble to their feet, rushing up to me. "Mommy, look at my basket!" Philomel pleads. "Lulu likes it, look!" She holds up her basket, decorated with flowers, her ragdoll inside.

I look down into my daughter's shining, innocent face, and feel my heart squeeze with terror for her. Oh, please, let no one find out who she truly is—especially not the disguised prince nearby, who even now leans in to whisper something to Jude.

Evening finds the house hushed, but Jude and I are still awake.

"They really miss you, you know," she says, keeping her voice down so as not to wake anyone.

The children, worn out from their busy day, are both asleep in the bed. Vivienne and Heather are both sacked out on the floor, and Cardan too sleeps. Only Jude and I have stayed up, sitting on the bench in the dim light of the lamps. I think we both knew we were going to have this conversation.

"Oriana's been miserable since you disappeared," Jude continues softly. "She never laughs, never smiles. I haven't even seen her doing lacework."

I blink at this. Oriana _loved _lacemaking. I never would have thought she'd give it up. _Not for seven years?_ I write.

"Not as far as I've seen." Jude sits back, letting out her breath. "And then Vivi left." Her mouth tightens.

_Are you still angry about that?_

"Yes," she says flatly. "She gave up on you."

_ It's fine. I left too._

It's true, I realize as I write: I left without a glance behind, no thought ever of seeing my sisters or even contacting them again. True, if the thought _had _ever occurred to me, I would have instantly dismissed it as too dangerous: there was no way I could have gotten them a message without it being intercepted. But—the thought didn't occur to me. Because I just didn't want to contact them.

_I don't blame her, _I write.

Jude breathes a sigh. "You're more forgiving than I am. You always were."

I look away. I'm not forgiving. I spent seven years not forgiving my sisters. Not wanting them in my life.

"But Madoc," Jude continues, as I knew she would, "he's never given up on finding you. He always had his spies out, was always listening for news." She looks me in the eyes. "I think he's really been afraid for you, Taryn."

_Do you think his spies found me?_ My heart thuds at the thought.

"No. But Taryn…I know what he did, of course I do. I can see why you don't want to go back to him. But he's been honorable to us. He did the best he could."

I give her a narrow-eyed look. She squirms. "He made us strong."

That word again.

For a moment I sit silent, staring down at the half-full page of the notebook. Then, taking up my pencil, I write slowly and deliberately, _Do you remember that guard who bit your finger off?_

She goes suddenly still. "How do you know about that?" she asks, soft and slow.

_One of the servants told me. I told Madoc. Did you really never wonder what happened to him?_

"I…" For the first time, she looks taken aback. "I guess I thought Madoc cashiered him."

I nod, unsurprised. Jude's always been good at blocking out things she doesn't like, truths she'd rather not face. I've often wished I had her knack of closing down my feelings.

_Madoc made me kill him. _The words scratch, spiky and uncompromising.

Her eyes widen. "He did what?"

_He trussed that guard like a hog and made me slit his throat. _Old anger uncoils in my chest. _He said we couldn't insult your honor by letting you know. _I feel my lip curl into a sneer at the very word. Honor. What a poisonous concept. _So he made me do it instead. It was supposed to make me "strong". _I mime quotation marks with my fingers, sneering more than ever.

"But you were—we were only nine years old!" Her voice slips and catches.

Grimly, I nod. _That's Madoc's honor. That's his strength. That's his __love__. It's what got our parents killed. I don't want any of it and I don't want him._

A long, stricken silence follows. Jude stares at me white-faced, as though she's never truly seen me before. She can't stop rubbing her healed finger.

"That's why you healed my hand," she says at last, abruptly. "Isn't it?"

I nod. Jude and I may not always have gotten along, but we are sisters. More than that: twins. Of course she understands why I did it. Why I might not want her carrying that missing finger as a trophy.

Jude bends forward, elbows on her knees, gaze on the floor. Then she says the last words I ever expected to hear from her mouth:

"I'm sorry."

She looks up at me. Her eyes are full of emotion: anguish, guilt, regret. "I'm sorry," she repeats softly. "For what he did to you. For what _I _did to you. If I'd given it any thought, I would have seen…But I didn't." She takes a deep breath. "I hope you can forgive me, one day."

I look at her: my sister. Her face, so pale and strained. Her hand, healed by my touch, the past erased. And I feel the last of my anger melting away.

Slowly, I reach out and take her hand. I squeeze it, and she squeezes back.

We sit together in the darkness a long time after that, peaceful.

Jude doesn't mention Madoc again. But I think we both feel a lightness: the sense of a burden being shifted off our shoulders. Suddenly, her presence here is far more enjoyable—we sit together for hours as I sew or she tends her weapons, her talking, me listening and occasionally laughing silently at things she says, while the children bounce around us. Philomel tries to show her how to weave a basket, and everyone falls about laughing at her pathetic attempts, which resemble rats' nests more than baskets. Cardan in particular cackles loudly—until we all force him to try, and he fails miserably, yet again.

"Right, right," he says, face crimson while we howl with laughter. "Rub it in. Miserable people."

"Never mind." Jude kisses his cheek. "You have other talents."

"Eww!" Dogwood and Philomel fall about, making disgusted noises at the sappy scene. I just shake my head in bemusement. It's still so strange, watching Jude and Cardan being gentle and tender with one another. I still can't really believe they're lovers now.

Jude straightens. "You may sneer now," she says to the kids, "but wait until you're older. Come on, I'll give you another sword fighting lesson."

"All right!" Dogwood jumps up and down with excitement while Philomel rolls her eyes.

It took me a few days to get onboard, but I have to admit that Jude's fight and self-defense lessons are going well, especially with Dogwood. She spends hours drilling them in attacking lunges and defense blocking. Philomel is only moderate enthusiastic, but Dogwood has taken to Jude's fighting style like a fish to water. Watching him leap, lunge and parry with his aunt, I see that Court fighting style suits him much better than Birch's goblin-style—though I feel disloyal even thinking that. I look around for Birch, but he hasn't appeared yet today.

"Look at them go," says Vivi, watching fondly as they practice in the clearing. "Your kids are so strong, Taryn."

I nod, beaming. Jude pauses the lesson to demonstrate another fighting move. Dogwood watches avidly, but Philomel is looking bored. I think it's only a matter of time before she wanders off. Cardan and Heather, off to the side, both call out encouragement.

Vivi turns to me. "Taryn…are you happy here? In this forest?"

I blink at this odd question. I've been _busy_ here, certainly: sometimes busy enough to be distracted from old pain. I've been accepted by the community, to a degree I never was at Court. I've been a useful member of society. I've found joy in my children.

But happy? I've never given that much thought. Mostly I've been concerned with keeping my head above the emotional waters and making sure the kids were all right.

I shrug. She sighs. "I wish you would consider coming Ironside with me."

_I can't, not with the kids._ I pause. _Do you know when you're going home?_

"I don't know." She bites her lip, watching Heather cross the clearing. "It has to be sometime soon, though. The longer Heather stays here, the more out of touch with her own world she'll get. Not to mention the danger…"

I nod. We've mostly stayed out of trouble, but twice already during this visit we've had to flee the sudden advent of the forest: once an angry hart, bellowing and lashing out with his antlers, and then a camouflaged leaf-dragon, striking from the undergrowth. Cardan barely pulled Heather out of the reach of its snapping jaws in time. Luckily, the manticore hasn't shown up.

"I hate to leave you here though," says Vivienne miserably. "With all those predators. And faeries."

_I've survived seven years_, I point out again. _The faeries are my allies._

Her face hardens. "Only because they find your healing ability useful. If it weren't for that, they'd tear you apart."

I shrug. That's probably true. But, really, is that so bad? It's certainly an improvement on Court. It may not be complete acceptance, but I find it's far better to be valued for what I can do rather than grudgingly tolerated for who I'm related to.

Philomel comes scampering up, hair aglow in the mellowing rays of sunshine. "Mommy!" She seizes my hand, towing me forward. "Come show Aunt Jude your knife trick!"

I nod, not at all sorry to leave Vivienne behind for now, and cross the clearing to show Jude how to throw poisoned salt in a faerie's eyes and slash with the knife.

She lets out a low whistle. "Brutal, Taryn," she says approvingly. "But that wouldn't kill most faeries."

"No," says Philomel, miming her own throw-and-slash. "But it gives us time to run away."

"Once we're up in the trees, we're safe," Dogwood nods.

Cardan, wandering up at the latter end of the demonstration, winces in sympathy. "I hope you never feel the urge to do that to me," he says.

"Hopefully not," says Birch, and we all jump. None of us saw him coming: he's just suddenly appeared, out of the forest, sidling silently up behind Cardan. "I'm the one who gets her the poisons, you know, from Ironside."

"Then I certainly don't want you as an enemy," returns Cardan evenly.

"No," says Birch softly, "you don't."

Dogwood glances between his uncles, looking worried. "Enemies? We're not enemies, are we?"

"Certainly not," says Jude, and she kisses Cardan casually on the mouth. He grins, grabbing her around the waist, and she gives a very un-Jude-like giggle.

"Not more kissing!" The kids fall about in disgust, Birch rolls his eyes, and I stare silently, still surprised by such open gestures of love between these two former enemies.

And that's as nothing compared to what I see the next morning.

I wake very early. The children sleep beside me in the bed, and Vivienne and Heather sleep too, wrapped up around each other on the floor, but Jude and Cardan are both gone, their place on the floor empty. Sleepy and slightly alarmed, I slip my shoes on and, grabbing my weapons, head outside to look for them.

It's a beautiful morning. The sun glows through the leaves, green and gold, and a slight mist drifts through the air, golden and prismatic. I hear a noise, a slight shift, and look up to see Jude and Cardan.

At first I'm so relieved that they're alive and well that I don't take in anything else about them. Then I realize what they're up to.

She's got him backed up against a tree. There is no space between them: they stand smothered against one another, their breeches unlaced and opened, bodies moving rhythmically. His mouth is on her neck; her face is tipped back, glazed with euphoric pleasure. Her hands clasp behind his neck, tangled in his hair. His hand travels up her torso, into her opened shirt, to cup a bare breast. She moans.

My face burns, but I can't look away.

I've never given much thought to this sort of thing: love, sex, romance. I wasn't greatly interested even before the assault—suicidal depression has that effect—and then Balekin effectively killed what little there was of my sex drive. I've seen goblin courtship since then, of course, but that's so different. The male chases the female through the canopy in a leaping, swinging dance; and consummation, when the female lets the male catch her, takes less than a minute, quick and businesslike. It's never touched me, never really impinged on my thoughts. It's just something goblins do.

But this…They look so happy. So drenched with pleasure. So wrapped up in one another that the rest of the world doesn't even exist.

I've never had that. And I never will.

Silently, I slip away and head back to the house.

Inside, Vivi's awake, just getting dressed. She takes one look at my burning face and smiles knowingly. "Jude and Cardan?"

I nod, blushing more than ever. She chuckles.

"Those two." She finishes pulling on her shirt. "I never would have thought it of them, you know, the way they fought. But they've been good for each other. They're both a lot happier now." She looks at me, her face sobering. "Taryn…can I talk to you?"

I check a sigh. Oh boy. Another heart-to-heart. Well, I suppose it can't be avoided. I sink down onto the bench, and gesture for her to sit by me.

Vivienne takes a minute to compose her thoughts, sitting with her elbows on her knees, knotting her fingers while staring intently at the floor. "Taryn…I know you're sick of listening to me apologize. For Madoc. For everything."

It seems mean to nod in agreement, but it's true: Vivienne spent years apologizing for being the reason Madoc came after us. The reason our parents were killed. The reason we were kidnapped. But it didn't matter how often she apologized: it didn't change a thing.

"Well," she says, "I'm going to apologize again. This time just to you."

She takes a deep breath, still staring at the floor. "Taryn, when you…when you stopped talking, stopped…interacting, I was…I was _pleased._ I thought it was funny to watch Madoc get so worked up. I liked that it drove him so crazy. I used to laugh behind my hand while he yelled and fumed and worried himself sick. Then you disappeared, and I realized…" She shakes her head. "I realized that I never really noticed your unhappiness. That Madoc's frustration was more important to me than your misery. I was so wrapped up in my hatred that I didn't bother to see that you…" She looks up at me, her soul in her eyes. "You were close to suicide, weren't you?"

Slowly, I nod. It's true. I'd been dying a long time, bit by bit, withdrawing and fading away. Balekin's attack would have been the end of me for sure: the final blow. I would have thrown myself from the cliffs when I recovered from that swoon, or slit my wrists with one of Jude's knives, or simply turned my face to the wall and waited for Death, humanity's great familiar, to come for me.

But that didn't happen. The unicorn saved me.

"For a long time," she says quietly, "I thought that was what had happened. That you'd killed yourself and no one found the body. That you were _dead_. And I blamed Madoc, but it was my fault too, for not caring enough, for not _noticing_…" Her eyes glitter with tears. "All those years, I despised the faeries for being cruel and vicious and selfish and unfeeling…and all the while I was just as bad. That's the real reason I left, you see. I couldn't face my guilt. I couldn't live where you'd died." She gives a small, unhappy laugh. "Jude's right when she says I ran away. When she says I was a coward."

For a long time I sit, watching her while she cries. She sits stiff and unyielding, expecting nothing from me, not comfort, not forgiveness. Everything she says is true and yet…what's the point in blaming her? What's the point in hatred? In guilt?

I get up, go to the shelf, retrieve my notebook and pencil. Sitting down again, I think carefully before I begin to write.

_There's a human saying: "Suffering builds character". But that's not true. Real suffering doesn't do anything to improve anyone, mortal or faerie. It just makes them cruel and selfish and greedy and violent. Look at Cardan, when his brother was tormenting him. _I can't bring myself to write Balekin's name. _You couldn't help me. You were in too much pain. We all were. But now we can stop accepting pain, and stop giving it. _I reach over to grasp her hand.

She gives a hiccupping giggle, wiping away tears, as she reads my message. "God, Taryn," she whispers, the human phrase so strange here in Faerie, "how do you do it? Be so forgiving?"

I shrug. _I love you. That makes it easy._ _Just promise me one thing._

"Anything," she says readily.

A smile tugs my lips. _Please stop apologizing all the time._

She gives a real laugh then, and we sit together, smiling, in the golden light of morning, while outside, Jude and Cardan come back to the house, voices soft and entwined.

Ten days into my family's visit, Birch takes me aside.

_Albia,_ he signs, _when are your guests leaving?_

I blink at him, fighting the strong, irrational surge of hurt. _They're my family. I can't just tell them to leave._

We're all back at the village. It's market day: the square is filled with booths and vendors, trading the goods of the forest and imports from elsewhere, from copper pots to hob-woven cloth. Heather's having a blast photographing everything and everyone (the twins have posed for her at least a dozen times so far). I'm in my usual corner near the Knot, waiting for anyone who wants healing or embroidery patterns. Meanwhile, my kids scamper and play and my guests circulate the market, attracting more than a few stares and whispers. Birch glances at them too, jaw clenching.

_What's your problem with them? _I demand, my irritation bubbling up. _You've been hostile to them since the start!_

_ They're courtiers, _he signs, not quite meeting my eyes.

_So was I! You said that didn't matter to you._

"It doesn't matter, not with _you_," he says aloud. "It's just…"

_Just what? _I demand, scowling.

He doesn't answer me. _Albia, they can't stay forever, _he signs instead. _Have you talked to them about it?_

I shift. _A bit…But these are my sisters. I can't just make them leave._

_ Not all of them are your sisters_. He lets out a little growl, crest twitching. _That Connor has things he's hiding. I don't trust him._

_ Of course you don't, _I say, annoyed. I sigh. _Why do you dislike courtiers so much, Birch?_

_ We all dislike courtiers out here, _he says, avoiding my eyes again.

_It's more than that, with you_, I insist. _What happened to make you hate them so much?_

He doesn't respond for a long moment, watching the happy, swirling crowd. Heartwood is posing for Heather, pipe in her mouth. _A Court stole something precious from me, _he signs at last. _Long ago._

I want to ask what it was they stole, but I can tell, from his shuttered face, that I won't get any answers. _Well, my family hasn't stolen anything from you, _I say instead.

"No, but they _will_ steal—" he begins aloud, angrily, and cuts himself off.

I wait. When the silence grows too long, I say, _Steal what?_

"Something else precious," he mutters, not looking at me.

I stare at him. The noise of the market seems very dim and far away. Something flickers to life inside me, some yearning desire. But I can't think what it is—and I don't dare ask—

"Hey, Albia!" We both jump and jerk around as Heather swings by. "We're all heading back to the house, okay? Vivi and Connor and Jude and me. Should we take the kids?"

"I'll stay with the kids," Birch says. His voice is clipped and businesslike. He straightens, turning away from me. "Be careful on your way back."

"We will. See you later!"

We stand and watch Heather go charging off, following my other guests back along the treeway. I only hope they stay in the house when they get there.

"I'll go see to the children." Birch still sounds so clipped. He still doesn't look at me. "Later, Albia."

I nod, and watch him move off, trying not to feel abandoned.

I treat a few marketgoers, for wounds and iron poisoning, but I can't shake that feeling of hollow restlessness. I want my family. I want Birch. But Birch is on the other side of the square, conjuring tiny fireworks for my kids and their squealing friends, and I can't bring myself to interrupt them. Plus, I have patients.

They soon thin out, though. When I realize I've been standing idle for half an hour, I decide to head home.

I go across the square to where the children are playing. I clap my hands sharply. _Time to go_, I sign.

"Oh, Mommy!" Philomel looks up from the glowing grid she's magicked up on the platform boards. "We're teaching everyone to play hopscotch!"

"Aunt Heather showed us," Dogwood nods in confirmation.

"Yeah, let 'em stay!" the other village children chime in.

I hesitate, wanting to take my kids home but not wanting to ruin their afternoon, or endure the tantrums that will inevitably ensue should I do so. Birch, perched on the railing nearby, singing a piece of wood into a knife hilt, looks up.

"Go ahead, Albia. I'll look after them. They'll come to no harm."

I nod gratefully, and with an admonition to the children to behave themselves and stay out of trouble, start heading home along the treeway.

Around me, the trees are in their golden season. I smile, feeling the wind fresh and brisk in my face, its rattle through the blazing leaves. It feels good to be alone for once. I sigh, a touch of melancholy darkening my pleasure. Birch may be irrationally hostile to my family, but that doesn't mean he isn't right. They can't stay here forever. But Jude and Vivienne have made it clear that they don't want to leave without me or the kids. And my sisters, when they really want something, are forces of nature. I've never stood a chance against them.

Musing on the problem, I climb down the ladder.

And the world crashes around me.

"Taryn?" Vivienne says in a thin, faint voice.

There's something held in Jude's hands, I see through the sick haze of shock: a large piece of black cloth, colorfully embroidered. Everyone's gathered around it: Jude, Cardan, Vivienne and Heather. Like one being, they turn to me, slowly, eyes wide, faces like sickly pale flowers.

The sealed compartment gapes open, like an uncovered eye.

I stand at the base of the ladder, room spinning around me, looking at them. And they look at me, still holding my tapestry.

"Taryn." I've never heard Jude sound like this, so disconnected, wavery. Or maybe it's my ears that aren't working properly, through the fog that's descended on my senses. "Taryn, I…that sealed cabinet opened for me. I didn't mean to pry, truly. It just opened at my touch. And I found this." She holds out the tapestry.

Of course. Birch spelled the compartment to open at my touch—or, unintentionally, my identical twin sister's. I have a wild, hysterical urge to laugh.

I lunge forward, to snatch the tapestry away from Jude and crumple it against my chest. I face them: Jude, Heather, Vivi, Cardan. They all stand in my cottage, staring at me, eyes like holes in their sick-looking faces.

"Taryn," Heather says at last, "Taryn, what that tapestry showed…did all that happen? Is that what happened, the night you disappeared?"

I can't nod, can't do anything. But the room blurs and sways around me.

It's Vivienne who catches me. She grabs me as I fall, guides me gently to the bench, where she sits me down, still clutching the tapestry. She sits beside me, arm around my shaking shoulders.

"It is, isn't it?" Heather's voice is surprisingly gentle. "It's what happened the night you disappeared. That man…got you on your own."

I'm falling, I'm falling, and I'm frozen in place, ice in my veins.

"It was rape, wasn't it?" Jude says, voice blank and flat. "Prince Balekin raped you."

The curse binds me tight. But they must all see the answer in my eyes.

"No, no." Vivienne takes me in her shaking arms. "No, no," she says, holding me tight. "Oh, Taryn…"

Jude's face is like a mask. She stands there, unmoving. Then, with a single, savage gesture, she whips out a dagger and sends it spinning across the room, to land, vibrating, in the wall.

"I'll kill him." Her voice is the single most terrifying sound I've ever heard. "I swear by the Great Trees of Faerie, I will kill that swine. He will pay for dishonoring you, Taryn."

From the shelter of Vivienne's arms, I stare at her helplessly. My thoughts are whirling too much for me to make sense of her words.

"Taryn," Vivienne says gently, "what happened?"

"You saw what happened." Cardan speaks with a clipped voice. "It's in the tapestry," he says, nodding at it in my hands. "Balekin got Taryn on her own. Then he silenced you, didn't he, Taryn? He cast the spell that robbed your voice."

"So she couldn't scream for help," says Heather. "Then…"

Cardan gives a harsh, angry caw of laughter. "It's all there, isn't it? He forced himself on her. And cast another curse, to prevent her ever revealing, to anyone, what happened."

There's a terrible silence. Vivienne rocks me in her arms. I huddle close, taking strength from her warmth, her strength, even as my insides crumble. They know. My family knows my deepest secret, my worst shame.

Jude crosses the room, to pull her dagger out of the wall. Still staring at the wall, one fist propped up, she says, "And Philomel?"

"Balekin's daughter," Cardan says with that ugly, furious laugh.

Jude turns, glaring at him. "And just what are you giggling about, Prince Cardan Greenbriar?" she demands icily.

"You mistake me." Cardan's mouth is a grim slash of a smile. "I laugh because I'm angry—as much at myself as my dear brother. I saw Balekin leading Taryn off that night. I suspected he would hurt her. I should have stopped him."

Jude's eyes blaze, dagger in her hand. She half-lunges at him, blade glinting high. "_Why didn't you, then?_"

Cardan faces his demon-eyed lover, face a mask of bitter humor. "Because I was a coward," he says softly. "As you were a coward, and Vivienne too, and Madoc and Oriana. We all saw that Balekin was stalking Taryn. And we did nothing. And it was Taryn who suffered for it."

Slowly, Jude lowers her dagger. A long, dismal silence falls.

Jude finally turns to me, fire banking in her eyes. "Does anyone else know?" she asks in a clipped voice. "Any of the goblins?"

I shake my head. Birch and Heartwood might suspect, but I'm not going to mention that—not when Jude has that expression on her face, that all but shouts that she'll gut anyone who even guesses at my shame.

"Why did he do it?" Everyone turns to look at Heather. She looks back, still shaky, but calm. "Why did Balekin silence you like this, Taryn?"

Vivi, still holding me, lets out an incredulous laugh. "What, it's not obvious?"

"Yeah, but…just how likely is he to actually get punished for this? I mean, he's a prince. And Taryn's a mortal. Was it even illegal for him to…?"

Cardan speaks slowly. "Taryn was the foster daughter of another faerie, under that faerie's protection. A powerful, high-ranking faerie. Violating her was a massive insult to Madoc as well as Taryn. And rape, true rape…it goes against Faerie's deepest laws. Balekin _took_ from Taryn, dishonored her in the crudest possible way, without repaying her anything. That violates Faerie's ancient laws of recompense, in the most abominable manner." His eyes flicker to me. "That's why the unicorn manifested, isn't it? That's why she gave you your gift. Because Faerie itself owed you."

I nod. Vivienne draws a shaking breath.

"So Balekin can expect punishment, if this gets out," Heather says musingly. "Or, at the very least, a huge scandal. Yeah, I can see why he shut you up, Taryn."

Vivienne gives her a rather unnerved look. "You're being very…calm about this, Heather."

"This sort of thing happens all the time, back on Earth," Heather says in a clipped voice. "Only there the perpetrators aren't always afraid of punishment." She smiles grimly. "In fact, quite often, it's the victim who gets the blame."

We all blink at this, surprised. "That makes no sense whatsoever," says Cardan at last.

"Of course it doesn't," Heather says. She gives an angry laugh. "But human society shames women who are assaulted like Taryn was. People say the victim deserved it. That she…lured her attacker or something. Or they just don't believe her. Or even if they do, she's been 'shamed' and violently punished while her attacker gets off with a slap on the wrist, if that."

"But Heather," says Vivi, eyes wide, "surely…Mortals don't…They wouldn't…"

"Vivienne. For God's sake." I've never heard Heather sound so exasperated. "You have got to stop thinking of all humans as entirely good and all faeries as entirely bad. Because that is just not true. Humans do all kinds of awful things, all the time. Human men rape human women and get away with it scot-free. Human parents sell their own kids into slavery. People are oppressed and discriminated against just for their _skin color_. Fathers murder daughters who dare to have sex before marriage. Armies recruit children as soldiers after killing their entire families—"

"All right, all right," says Jude hastily. "You've made your point. Mortals do all kinds of terrible things and none of this is a surprise to you. The question _now_ is…"

But we never learn what the question is. Jude trails off, going very still. Her mouth opens and closes. "Oh," she whispers. "_Oh._"

We all look at her. "Oh, what?" Cardan asks. His eyes narrow. "Just what are you concocting in that devious brain of yours, Jude?"

"Don't you _see_?" A strange excitement is taking hold of Jude: she paces in agitation, and her eyes gleam in a way that reminds me, very unpleasantly, of Madoc in one of his king-of-everything moods. "Philomel…she's the _Lost Heir_. She's the hidden claimant to the high throne of Faerie!"

I gape at her, aghast. Jumping to my feet, I gesture frantically for her to hush. But it's too late: the realization is spreading among everyone else too, like wildfire.

"Great Trees," Cardan says slowly, "she _is_, isn't she?" He shakes his head. "That certainly explains a few things."

"Taryn's daughter," Vivienne says dazedly. "The Lost Heir." Her eyes widen. "What are we going to _do_?"

"We need to think." Jude paces feverishly, eyes gleaming like a wild animal's. "We can't do anything hastily."

"Do what?" Heather folds her arms and snorts. "Like, what, we're going to take Taryn's kid and march her back to this High Court of yours as the next heir to the throne of Faerie?"

A thoughtful silence greets this question. Heather's skeptical smile slips. "Oh, Christ. You're actually considering it, aren't you?"

A chasm of horror opens in me at the very thought. Racing up to Jude, I wave my hands frantically, signing, _No! I forbid it!_

"Why not?" She can't understand the signs entirely, but she can read my meaning well enough.

I gape at her incredulously before racing to grab my notebook and pencil. _Are you crazy? _My hand slips and trembles as I write. _They'd tear her apart! She's only six!_

"Taryn." Gently, she takes my wrists. Her hands are trembling too, with excitement. "You want to protect her. I understand that. But Taryn…this isn't going to stay a secret. It's amazing you've kept it hidden this long, really. Sooner or later, it'll get out. Remember what I said, about some lesser Court snatching you and your children for your abilities? Well, how long will it take for them to figure out who Philomel really is, once that happens?"

My exact fears, spoken aloud. All I can do is shake my head.

"They'll make a bid for the throne," Cardan says slowly. "Especially if they can somehow bind Philomel into their own royal family. Wait a few years and marry her off to one of their own princes." His eyes flick to me. "Or some king might even marry you, Taryn, and then he can claim Philomel as his stepdaughter."

"And then it'll be civil war," Jude finishes grimly. "A bloodbath, tearing Faerie apart. Philomel would be right in the middle of it all. And you wouldn't be able to do a thing to protect her, Taryn. Do you really want to see that?"

I shudder at the thought. _There must be some way, _I write miserably.

"There is." Vivienne's standing over my shoulder, reading. "Come back Ironside with me and Heather. No one would think to look for the Lost Heir there."

"Are you mad?" Jude demands. "They'd be completely unprotected! No, Taryn, what you should do is come back to Court. I understand why you don't want to, but…Madoc would take your side. He'd be a powerful ally, whatever you think of him."

I stare at her. _Isn't Madoc friends with Balekin?_

Her mouth tightens. "He won't be friends with him after _this_."

"I wouldn't be so sure of that." Cardan prowls close. "A chance to see his granddaughter on the throne…A prize like that might make him ally with Balekin anyway, no matter what he's done. He might even hand Taryn and Philomel right over to my brother."

My blood turns to ice. A part of me—a stupid, pathetic part—cries out, _No! __My father wouldn't do that!_ But then I remember the way his eyes gleamed when he noticed Balekin's attentions to me. The way he stood back for the prince, let him at me. And that was just in the hopes of some more wealth and influence. What would he do for the chance of the _throne_?

"We can't let that happen." Jude's pacing feverishly again. "Balekin needs to be punished. He needs to _die_."

Overhead, we hear tromping, and happy chattering. Birch is bringing the children back. Hastily, I shove the tapestry at Vivienne, gesturing frantically to hide it. She dives to stuff it into her bedroll while Jude steps up to me again.

"This is not going to go away just because you want it to, Taryn." Her hiss is like that of a snake. "Sooner or later, it's going to get out. You can seize control of that revelation, or you can be its victim. But it's going to happen, no matter what you or any of us do."

I glare at her helplessly while overhead Dogwood and Philomel chirp, "Bye, Uncle Birch!" and head down the ladder. Dogwood reaches the floor first and bounds over to me. "Hi, Mommy!" He gives me a hug.

"Hey, Mommy!" Philomel's right behind him, skipping along.

My guests all turn to stare at my daughter, half-horrified, half-fascinated. She falters, frowning nervously. "What? What is it?"

_Nothing, darling. _I kneel down to hug Dogwood and hold my other arm out for her. She skips over, and I hug my precious daughter, my beloved son, both my treasured children, while I glare at everyone else over their heads.

No one quite meets my eyes. But they can't look away from Philomel either, with horror and wonder.

Somehow, we all get through the evening, all the guests sneaking horrified peeks at Philomel and watching me as though I'm suddenly made of cut glass and will fall apart if they're not careful. Vivienne and Heather both volunteer to make dinner, and Jude washes the dishes, as though I suddenly can't do my own chores. Even Cardan is quieter and more circumspect around me.

They mean well, but I can't suppress a twinge of irritation. Honestly, I managed this horror all on my own for seven years, raising two kids while I was at it. I'm hardly going to break down _now._

The kids alone act normal, chattering away about their day. Philomel asks Heather to braid another bracelet with her, sitting on the floor with the threads tied to their toes. Philomel enchants her bracelet so it glitters as it streaks through the dark air, shining in everyone's eyes, before it lands on my own wrist.

"For you, Mommy!" Philomel beams.

I smile at her and go over to stroke her hair. _What a good daughter._ I glare at my guests over her head until they look away. Dogwood glances between me and then, wide-eyed. Maybe he's not as oblivious as I thought.

Finally we go to bed. But I don't sleep well. In the dark of the cottage, I feel Philomel's breath next to me, her hair glowing faintly in the dark. I hold her close, and without waking she snuggles in, cuddling Lulu and murmuring unintelligibly. Tears prick my eyes as I feel how dear she is, how much I love her. Nothing must happen to this, my precious daughter, who I have loved, despite everything, from the moment of her birth. A miracle of life, a miracle of love. I'd do anything to protect her.

If only I knew what that "anything" was. I wonder if my own mother felt this way: like there was nothing but bad choices, no matter which way she turned. This sense of every road leading to disaster.

At the first hint of dawn, filtering through the rose leaves around the window, I get out of bed, maneuvering gently around the sleeping Philomel, and pick my way among the sleeping bodies to the ground-level door, pausing only to pick up my knife and salt. I head out, into the brightening dawn, and sit down on the tree root bench.

I rake my fingers through my unbrushed hair. What am I going to do? I try to think, but my mind just whirls.

The door opens softly, and Jude comes out, hair also unbrushed, still in her sleeping clothes. "May I sit with you?" she asks quietly.

I nod, and make room for her. She sits beside me, and we watch the forest slowly come to life.

"How did you manage to even sew that tapestry?" she asks at last, abruptly. "I thought the second curse stopped you from revealing anything about…about what happened."

I look around in vain for something to write with. She hands me the notebook and pencil. I guess she knew we were going to have this discussion.

_I didn't intend for anyone to see that tapestry, _I write. _So the curse let me make it._

"Yes, but…_why _did you make it, then? What good would it do you?"

I shrug. _I had to get it out of me somehow. It would have eaten me alive otherwise._

She frowns in confusion. I sigh: there's no use in trying to make Jude understand the necessity of expressing emotions. I look away, and another silence passes.

"I'm sorry," she says suddenly. "For yesterday. I…I got carried away. You want to keep Philomel safe. I understand."

I glare at her. How can she understand? She's not a mother. And, more than that, she's the true heir to Madoc's ambition. Her mind leaped straight to the throne, to Philomel's birthright, with barely a pause.

"Think, though." She turns to me, eyes hard and blazing. "Think: how else are you going to get justice? How else will you get revenge on…on that _monster_? Don't you want to see him punished for what he did? Don't you want to see him _dead_?"

I squeeze my eyes shut under the sudden throb of emotion. Of course I'd like to see Balekin dead! I've wished him dead a thousand times these last seven years—_ten_ thousand. Never before was vengeance a possibility, but it is now.

So why aren't I leaping at the chance? Why aren't I plotting murder with my sisters? Why aren't I happy that, at last, someone knows, and believes me, and has taken my side?

I take a moment to compose my thoughts before writing. _Yes, I'd like to see him dead. But that's not so important._

"Not so…What do you _mean_?" Jude's eyes are enormous with incredulity and confusion. "What could be more important?"

_The children's safety._ I give her a dry look.

"Oh. Right." Jude looks a bit abashed. She glances at me sidelong. "Taryn…how do you _do _it? Never get angry like this?"

_I get angry._ But even as I write, I know that's not quite the point. Jude's right: I might feel anger, but it's never moved me the way it moves her and Vivienne. Its passion has never blazed through me as it blazes through them, scouring out all else, driving me onward to deeds of violence and vengeance. For that, my family and the Court thought me weak and a coward, and for a long time I agreed with them.

But maybe it's much simpler than that. Maybe I'm just not a vengeful or angry person. And really, what's wrong with that? Maybe my lack of rage disabled me from fighting back, maybe I lack the power or the drive to pursue justice against my enemy—but that same lack was what allowed me to love Philomel, born of rape as she was. It gave me seven happy years with my children—years I wouldn't have had if I'd chosen vengeance instead of love.

Jude would have chosen vengeance. So would Vivienne. They would have stopped at nothing, forces of nature that they are, until they delivered just punishment to their enemy, and damn whatever got in their way. No matter how much blood was spilled, no matter who suffered, they would have fought on, their rage burning like wildfires, blazing away all obstacles in their path.

I can't do that. I can't burn that way. And because I cannot burn, I can love.

_I love Philomel more than I hate Balekin, _I write. _I'll choose her safety and happiness over his destruction._

"How?" Slowly, Jude shakes her head, tears in her eyes. "How can you love her? When she's born of…_that_?"

_She's my daughter. She was blessed by the unicorn like me. And it's not her fault._ Anxiety seizes me, and I clutch Jude's arm. _Don't treat her any differently, now that you know the truth. Please._

"Of course not." She takes a deep breath, lets it out again. "But this can't go on, Taryn. Sooner or later, someone's going to figure it out. Someone who doesn't care about your wishes, or Philomel's happiness."

_Like Madoc? _I ask, sharp and angry.

"Like Madoc," she says unhesitatingly, "only worse. Madoc's probably still your best option: at least he does actually care about you, Taryn. He'd care about Philomel, too."

She's probably right. But, however much Madoc cares about me, or potentially about my daughter, he'd care a lot more about taking power, and getting Philomel on the throne, no matter what he had to do to accomplish it.

But how am I going to stop him finding out? Eventually, Jude and Cardan will return to Court. And while Jude will do her best to keep the secret, I don't trust Cardan to do the same. Oh, he might not mean to do us any harm—he might even try to keep the secret too—but knowledge such as this is the sort of currency courtiers commit murder to obtain. Unless I can somehow bind him to such a deep promise that he can't find a way around it—which I doubt—Cardan is eventually going to be in a position where he needs to spend that currency, especially with the High King dying. And then…

My thoughts fragment. My head hurts. I take a deep breath, counting to ten. _We'll talk some more tomorrow, _I write. _I just can't face it today. I can't think._

Jude looks like she wants to argue, but finally nods. "Fine. Tomorrow. I'll tell the others."

I nod, breathing a sigh of relief. Maybe by tomorrow I'll be more clearheaded. Maybe tomorrow I can face this, sit down, think through a strategy. Tomorrow is soon enough.

But it isn't.


	13. Chapter 13: Captured

Captured

"Mommy? Mommy!"

I groan soundlessly, swimming up out a deep, deep sleep. It's been a very long, awkward day. Jude communicated my wishes to the others, but they were all so polite and circumspect—even Cardan—tiptoeing around the elephant in the room so very delicately, that I eventually took the kids off to the village again, where I sat and drank with Heartwood, watching the kids play. It felt good just to sit and be quiet a while; but I still felt bad, both for abandoning my family and for avoiding the issue.

I looked for Birch. I really wanted to see him. But he wasn't there.

So I was very glad, when we got home, to go to bed and get some sleep. But now Philomel is crouching over me, face set and frantic in the dim glow of her hair. "Mommy, wake up! Something's happening."

I sit up, Dogwood stirring at my side, and light the lamp. _What is it?_

"I don't know." Philomel shakes her head. I've never seen her so agitated, small body shaking with alarm, clutching Lulu. "But hear the roses."

I fall still, listening. I can hear the roses now all right: their whispering is getting louder, and I can hear their agitated shifting and stirring. _Run. Run. They are coming…_

_They are coming._

And then terror seizes me, dread worse than any I've known since the night of ball. Grabbing both my children, I swing my legs out of bed, snatching my knife and salt. Kneeling, I nudge Jude awake.

"Wha…?" She sits up, blinking sleepily.

"Hurry!" whispers Philomel, still holding Lulu. "We have to leave!" Beside Jude, Cardan is waking up as well, and beyond, Vivi and Heather are stirring.

I'm already getting my kids' cloaks on, and wrapping my own around my shoulders, pulling my pants on under my nightshirt. I signal frantically, my whole being itching to be gone. "We have to get out," Dogwood translates urgently. "We have to get to the village."

"What for?" moans Heather, rubbing her face sleepily. "What's happening?"

Cardan falls still. "Oh, no."

"What?" Jude looks at him.

"Can't you hear that?" He leaps to his feet, pulling his pants and jacket on. "Someone's coming."

"Let's go!" Philomel hisses. "Let's go now!"

My guests stare for only a second, wide-eyed, before grabbing weapons, yanking on clothes and shoving their feet into shoes. Silently, they stream after us to the ladder.

I usher my kids up the ladder. Children of the wild, they know to climb quickly and quietly, and wait on the platform for the rest of us to appear. Outside, the night is very dark; there's no moon tonight. Frantically, I look around for the approaching threat, but see nothing. Everything is still—_too _still. The forest seems to be holding its breath in fear.

Vivi hauls herself out onto the platform, the last of us, and we immediately stream away, along the treeway toward the village. The village: I hold onto that thought. If we can just make it to the village, we will be safe. I keep telling myself that, to keep myself focused, as I pull my kids along, one clinging to each hand, and my family slips silently after us. If we can just get to the village—

"My lord! The treetops!"

And suddenly there's no point in stealth. I start to run, dragging Dogwood and Philomel after me, hair flying behind me, the feet of my family pounding the treeway as we flee and below us there are more shouts and cries, the sounds of running feet.

A figure drops out of the canopy to land before us, sword out. I skid to a halt, pushing my children behind me, as more figures appear, all hidden in the canopy, all with arrows trained on us, all sporting the same crest: a crescent moon with a drop of blood.

Madoc's symbol.

My knife is in my hand, my fist cocked back full of salt, but the knight stays just out of range and more and more are swarming out of the canopy. We're completely surrounded. Even if I take down one, the others will shoot us. I don't believe those arrows are really lethal weapons—they're more likely spells of sleep or constraint, shaped in the form of arrows—but all the archers have extremely steady hands and keen eyes, fixed on us unblinking. If any of us tries anything, we'll all be knocked unconscious or wrapped in vines faster than we can blink.

Philomel draws breath, hair glowing as she begins a spell. "Don't, Melly," Jude whispers urgently. She has her sword out, but she makes no move to fight. She too can see we're outnumbered.

_Yes, _I sign. _Don't. There's too many of them._

"Who _are _they?" she demands, tears in her eyes.

"We are knights in the service of General Madoc, young lady." The knight bows before us. I recognize him now, through my haze: it's Foxfire, the head of Madoc's knights. How very not nice to see a familiar face… "Lady Taryn," he addresses me with respect. "I must ask you to accompany me to the ground, where your father awaits." He looks over my head at everyone else. "All of you. Hand over your weapons."

Reluctantly, I hand him my knife and salt as his cohorts close in, confiscating Jude's sword, and daggers from Vivi, Cardan and Heather. The lead knight opens my bag and hisses sharply as he sees the poisonous mixture, eyes widening. He rebuttons it and puts it away with a gingery care that would be funny if this weren't so horrifying.

"Be warned, Foxfire." Cardan steps forward from being frisked, and somehow it doesn't matter that he's just woken up with bedhead, half-dressed, and been captured in a tree. He is a Prince of Faerie. Majesty radiates off him, from his disdainful gaze to his catlike tread. "If you harm any of us, you're guilty of action against a Greenbriar prince and those under his protection."

At my side, the children gasp, staring at him. "He's a _prince_?" Philomel whispers incredulously. I nudge her into silence.

"With all due respect, Prince Cardan," Foxfire says, bowing, "your father, King Eldred, has commanded us to bring you back to Court by any means necessary, along with anyone accompanying you. So I am perfectly free to use force to bring you along." He pulls a rolled rope ladder out of nowhere and, hooking it to the treeway rail, sends it uncoiling to the ground. "If you will all descend…?" He steps back courteously.

"Really, I'm amazed my father cares so much," Cardan drawls as he lounges, insolently slow, to the ladder. He pauses before it. "I don't suppose he passed along any messages for me?"

He's playing for time, I realize: trying to give us a chance to find a way out of this. But I don't see one: the knights are all chivvying us forward like cattle. And below us, lights are appearing as more of them gather around the ladder.

"Not to my knowledge, Your Highness," Foxfire says patiently. "Please go down."

Cardan's eyes spark. "What, on you?" Behind me, I hear Jude snort with repressed laughter.

Foxfire gives Cardan a very flat, unamused stare.

Cardan sighs. "So much for a little levity to lighten a grim situation. All right. Down I go." He gives Foxfire an ironic bow and, slowly and grandly, climbs onto the ladder and begins swinging himself down, hand over hand. Reluctantly, I usher the children after him.

Foxfire and the other knights let the kids pass without comment or surprise, which alarms me: how do they know about my children? How long has Madoc been watching us? I climb down the ladder after them, and immediately take their hands again, shuffling closer to Cardan, who is now lounging ostentatiously against a tree trunk, arms folded, smiling urbanely at Madoc's knights.

Dogwood stares around, eyes huge. "Mommy," he whispers, "who are these people?"

"And why didn't you tell us Uncle Connor was a prince?" Philomel demands accusingly.

_These are knights from the High Court, _I say, _and Cardan didn't want anyone to know—_ I break off as the knights step aside and a tall, bulky figure strides toward us.

It's Madoc. I knew he would be here, but it's still a horrible shock to actually see him. Madoc. Here. In my forest. Staring up at his craggy face, those awful teeth, I have a dreadful flashback to the very first time I ever saw him, my mother's blood dripping from his hands. I shrink away, trying to push my kids back behind me, as he advances.

He stops about five paces away. His catlike eyes don't move from me, but it's Cardan he addresses first. "Your Highness," he says, his voice sending a stab of memory through me, and he bows to Cardan. "It's good to see you alive and well."

"Oh," says Cardan, picking off a bit of lint and flicking it away, "I've no doubt you've been watching us all for quite some time." He gives a sigh of elaborate boredom. "Let's get this over with, shall we? Taryn's right here. Why don't you embrace her, slap her across the face, and demand explanations? I'm sure you're desperate to do all three." He puts his hands behind his back, looking up toward the dark canopy. "Don't mind me."

A smile tugs Madoc's lips. "Glib as ever, Your Highness."

"I try, General. I try."

Behind me, the rope ladder swings as first Vivienne, then Heather and finally Jude descend to the ground. Vivi stiffens, glaring at Madoc, who ignores her completely. Heather, meanwhile, stares quizzically. "Is that your father?" she asks Vivienne in a low voice.

"Yes." It's forced out between her teeth.

"The one who…?"

"_Yes_."

"Ah." Heather is suddenly very still, and very hard to read.

Madoc pays no mind to the whispered conversation, though he must have heard it, as well as noted Jude stepping protectively closer. His gaze has traveled back to me, and now his eyes burn into me, as though he would devour my very soul. Philomel and Dogwood both shrink back behind me, shivering like a pair of rabbit kits, as he approaches.

"Taryn?" I'm amazed at the softness in his voice, the emotion. "Taryn?"

I clutch my children's wrists, pulling them close.

His huge hands descend, claws like knives, onto my shoulders, ignoring my flinch. He squeezes my shoulders, feeling my bones, my physicality, as if he has to reassure himself that I'm real, that I'm actually standing before him. In his eyes is an expression so intense, so painful, that I can't identify it. It's all I can to do stand straight and stare back at him. I _will not _struggle. I will not back away.

"Taryn…what happened to you? Where have you BEEN?" His voice rises in a sudden shout, cracking across the nighttime woods.

Not even Cardan dares break the ringing silence that falls. Madoc draws in a deep, shuddering breath, lets it out again. His grip on my shoulders doesn't slacken, but, somewhat to my surprise, he doesn't demand any further explanation. Instead, his eyes play over Philomel and Dogwood. "These are your children?" His voice is surprisingly gentle.

I nod. I expect him to demand their names, or to know who their fathers were, but he doesn't. Instead, his eyes pass over Dogwood to rest on Philomel. A strange little smile plays across his face.

"Leave her alone!" To my horror, Philomel suddenly jumps forward, knocking Madoc's hands off me and placing herself before me. "You leave my Mommy alone!" she shouts, little fists clenched with rage, Lulu dangling from her grip, glaring with all her might at Madoc, hair glowing like a star. "Who do you think you are?"

A murmur, half amused and half terrified, runs through the surrounding knights at my daughter's pint-sized ferocity, mirroring my own pride and terror. Jude steps forward. "Quiet, Philomel. Madoc, she's just a child—"

"Philomel?" he interrupts. He cocks his head at her inquiringly. "Is that your name?"

"Yes," she says defiantly. "Who are _you_?"

"I am your grandfather," he says, pitching his voice loudly and clearly around the grove. "My name is Madoc, and I am a General of the High Court of Faerie, where you and your family will be accompanying me."

It's like he's hit me and the children a shattering blow. I feel like the ground's giving way beneath my feet. I shake my head, mouthing _no, no_. I can't go back there. I can't take the children there. I can't. I can't.

"Oh, no we won't!" screams Philomel, and, hair glowing, ignites her fire.

Madoc leaps back at the sudden blast of silver flame, and his men all recoil. But he is not a High Court General for nothing, and the flames part harmlessly, diverted by the magical shield he's instantly erected. He shouts something, a name, and a knight leaps forward, a female elf, and suddenly the flames are gone, sucked into darkness.

Philomel gapes. She's never once encountered a faerie of Madoc's caliber—never once met a faerie who approached her in power—let alone seen one of her spells so thoroughly demolished. "What—what…?"

"Saxifrage, I think you'd better stay close." Madoc's eyes gleam wolfishly as he looks at my daughter. "This child needs a Mirror during our journey home."

Philomel rallies at this. "We're not going anywhere with you! You can't make us!"

"Yes I can," he says calmly. "I am your grandfather, your mother's father, and you will obey me as the head of your house." His gaze encompasses the rest of us, huddled at the foot of the tree. "All of you."

"But this is our home!" Philomel's face is streaked with tears, and Dogwood trembles even more violently against me.

"No," says Madoc calmly. "Your mother ran away from her home. I am now taking you back, as I have a right to do."

Jude, meanwhile, is pursuing a different line of thought. "How did you track us all this way, Madoc? We were careful about not leaving traces."

"Not careful enough." A new voice rings through the clearing.

I know that voice. It's been in my nightmares for seven years.

I can't move. I can't even feel the ground beneath my feet. All I can do is stand and stare, gripping my children, as a new figure enters the clearing, moving soundlessly and gracefully through the woods.

No. No. Please no.

Prince Balekin Greenbriar smiles at me, a long, creeping grin. He's here. After all these years, my nightmare has come to life.

"How do you hunt a woman who can't be hunted?" he asks, and his voice sends shards of glass through me. "How do you track a woman who can't be tracked?" His grin widens even further. "The answer's easy: you track her sisters. Hello, Taryn. It's good to see you again."

"You—!" Vivienne steps forward, snarling, and Heather and Jude pull her back.

"Vivi, don't!" Jude warns even as she glares at Balekin without enough murderous force to drop him dead on the spot.

I can't move. Behind me, Dogwood is frozen, and even Philomel is silent, sensing my fear, the danger of this man. Philomel. No. He mustn't see Philomel. He mustn't see her!

I push her behind me, pulling my cloak over her face. Philomel lets out a muffled yelp, and Madoc glances back at me, sharply. A frown grows on his face as he takes in my fixed stare, my terrified stance, my stark white face, how I hide my daughter away. How I tremble before Balekin.

"Oh!" says Cardan suddenly, in a tone of great enlightenment, and everyone looks at him. "So _that's_ what was going on. You two let us escape on purpose, didn't you? Knowing we'd lead you to Taryn. I _thought _it all seemed too easy. Clever." He cocks his head at his older brother. "A bit _too _clever for you, Balekin. I assume it was Madoc's idea?"

Balekin turns to glare at him, taking his eyes off me. "Still as rude as ever, little brother. You'd think you'd have learned to hold your tongue by now."

"Yes," says Cardan with utter serenity. You'd think he was in Oriana's parlor, bantering over tea, instead of ringed around with hostile soldiers in a wild woodland clearing in the middle of the night. "_You'd_ think so, wouldn't you?"

"Mommy?" whispers Dogwood. "Mommy, who is that man?"

"Mmmph—Mommy, lemme out!" Philomel writhes under my cloak. I struggle to keep her still, but she twists out from under my hands and into the lamplight. She blinks up at Balekin. "Who…?"

The world is crumbling around me. All I can do is stand and watch, helplessly, while Balekin takes in my daughter.

Slowly, his eyes begin to glow. A slow, horrible smile grows on his face as he drinks her in, greedy, triumphant. His gaze devours her. He knows. He knows. Somehow, he knows.

"Philomel, get back!" Vivi and Jude move, grabbing Philomel and jerking her back into our protective circle. I gather her to myself, clutching both her and Dogwood. "Mommy, what's happening?" Philomel asks, bewildered. "Who is that man?"

"That's Prince Balekin," Jude says grimly. "And you stay far away from him—you and your brother both."

Dogwood looks around apprehensively. "Do we have a choice? He's making us go."

"Inaccurate, young man." Madoc has somehow interposed himself between us and Balekin, his tall bulk blocking him out. Clutching the children, I edge us closer to him. He may be kidnapping me for the second time, along with my children, but a choice between Madoc and Balekin is no choice at all. "_I'm _making you go. You'll all be returning to my stronghold."

"What?" I flinch at the sound of Balekin's voice, sharp and annoyed. "With you?"

"Of course," says Madoc serenely. "They're my family. And it was my soldiers who captured them. They're all my prisoners."

"I helped you! And Cardan is my brother."

"And my foster son," Madoc says smoothly. "Who you expelled from your house. Again, captured by my soldiers, by order of the High King. An order Eldred gave to _me_, not you. Prince Cardan belongs to me, along with my daughters and grandchildren." He pauses. "It was most generous of you to devote so much time and energy to helping me find them—but what possible claim could you have on them?"

Balekin's silent. I imagine he's grinding his teeth, trying to figure out a way of getting his hands on me and Philomel without admitting she's his daughter—for that would inevitably bring the truth spilling out. His daughter. Nausea grips me. He knows she's his daughter.

Madoc turns to us. "We brought horses for you—we're camped over the mountains. You'll all be accompanying me." His eyes bore into me. "And when we get back, we're going to talk."

"Oh, goody," mumbles Vivienne.

I gulp and nod. The prospect's horrible—but nowhere near as bad as Balekin getting me and Philomel into his custody.

"Taryn." Madoc's standing before me now. He has something in his hand: a wand of several woods, bound together. Madoc's eyes glow with some spell, and the wand comes down, striking me lightly. Two more flicks, and both my children are struck. We all flinch as the magic spikes in us.

Jude watches in great alarm. "Madoc," she says, "what did you just do?"

"Bound Taryn and my grandchildren to me," he says calmly. "Magical leashes, if you will. Stay close to me, all three of you," he orders me and the children. "This spell won't let you get far."

"What!" Philomel scratches at her arms, as though she could scrape the spell off. "Take it off!"

"Not until we get back to Court," he says. "Your mother's already escaped once. I'm not taking the risk of a second attempt. Now come along."

He moves away, and almost immediately the children and I are jerked after him on invisible cords, stumbling over the ground; he hasn't given us much leash length. Philomel gasps and Dogwood sobs. Tears of rage and humiliation sting my eyes. How much worse can this get?

Madoc drags us across the clearing and into Balekin's line of sight. His gaze feels like slime, scum on my skin; my flesh crawls. I push the children to my other side, trying to hide them, but he sees them anyway. "Who's that goblin boy?" Balekin's voice is sharp, his gaze fixed on Dogwood. Hastily, I jerk him closer.

"No one, Balekin," Cardan says quickly. He's being escorted just behind us, with my sisters and Heather. "His name's Dogwood. Taryn adopted him after his mother was killed by a manticore."

"A manticore?" Balekin doesn't quite look away from my children, but he does tense up in sudden interest.

Great, I think, a bit hysterically. Maybe the manticore will come leaping out to kill Balekin and Madoc and we can all escape in the ensuing chaos. My throat burns, and I wish more than ever that I had my voice back. I'd use it to call in the manticore's debt right now, and set her on Balekin.

Then, as if my wish had conjured it, there's a sudden ruckus off to the side. I tense, but it's not the manticore. It's two of Madoc's knights, bundling a small, furry, struggling form between them.

Oh, no. It's Birch. My mouth goes dry. What's he doing here?

"Now who is this?" Madoc asks. He stalks over, towing me and the children behind.

"Caught him on the ground, my lord," says one of the knights. "Spying."

Birch tugs at the knight holding his arm, fruitlessly. "Let me go! Who are you? What are you doing with Albia and her family?"

"Answer my question," Madoc returns evenly.

Birch hesitates, looking up at him. He stops struggling, going still. "I remember you," he says slowly.

I blink and stare, and Madoc seems confused too. "Do you?" He cocks his head. "I don't recall ever seeing you before."

"You didn't," Birch says, still in that strange, quiet tone. "See me. And it was long ago."

Madoc shrugs. "Be that as it may, what is your name, goblin? And do you know my daughter and grandchildren?"

"Birch," Birch says. "I am Birch of the Red Branch tribe. I'm a friend of Albia's." He cranes over. "Albia! What's happening?"

"They're kidnapping us!" shouts Philomel, a ragged edge of hysteria in her voice.

"What?" Birch blinks.

Helplessly, I shake my head, and I take the risk of dropping my kids' hands to sign at him. _It's my father, Madoc. He's captured us!_

"Madoc? _General_ Madoc? Your _father_—?" Birch gapes up at Madoc. "And _kidnapping _you?"

_He caught us, and he's making us go back to Court with him._ My hands shake with urgency. _What are you doing here, Birch?_

He gives a hesitant glance around and begins signing in the torchlight. _I had a strange dream. I woke up thinking you were in danger. I came to make sure you were all right. _He looks both miserable and rueful. _I'm sorry I didn't come sooner._

Madoc watches us, narrow-eyed. "Can you speak my daughter's sign language?"

Birch breaks off to look up at him. "Of course I can," he says warily. "She taught it to me herself."

"Oh, really? How long have you known her?"

"Seven years," he says, warier than ever. "Ever since she arrived here in the valley."

Madoc smiles and turns away. "Tie him up," he orders his knights. "He'll be coming with us."

"What?" says Birch blankly as the ropes go on.

"What!" snarls Balekin, incensed. "What do you want with a _goblin_?"

"Yes, let him go," says Jude. "He's got nothing to do with this."

"On the contrary," says Madoc evenly. "I do believe Taryn could use an interpreter at Court. And _I _could use an account of the last seven years of my daughter's life from someone who can't lie."

For a moment, it looks like Birch will struggle. He might even get away, the ropes yielding to his wild goblin strength. But then his eyes fasten on me, and slide down to Dogwood. He bows his head, and lets himself be led forward, meek and unresisting.

"Back to camp." Madoc strides along, brisk and energetic, yanking me and the children after him. Happiness and satisfaction radiate off him, and why not? Everything has gone his way. He seems to revel in the glares of frustration and impotent fury that my family, Birch and even Balekin are all leveling at him. "My grandchildren and their mother can ride with me."

I eye him sidelong. He seems very keen on claiming my offspring as his kin, constantly referring to them as his grandchildren. Why? An awful suspicion wells up. I push it down before I have to face it.

Madoc's hands go around my waist, and he lifts me up onto his own charger. He hoists Dogwood and Philomel up before me, and mounts behind us, arms going around us, bulk high and hot behind me. Around us, my sisters, Cardan and Heather are all forced onto horses and bound to their saddles with glimmering spell cords. Birch is hoisted up behind a knight. None us, not even Cardan, is going to escape.

Behind us, there's a crackling noise.

Philomel, Dogwood and I all look back just in time to see the rose bushes go up in flames. Balekin stands over the conflagration, a snarling smile on his face, sparks still flying form his fingers.

"No! The roses! No!" Philomel struggles to leap off the horse, but there's no escape. Her hair glows, and Madoc jerks in surprise as she fights his spell, pitting her strength against his. "No! DON'T!"

And then I have to close my eyes against the sudden glare of her hair as an enormous gust of wind cracks through the trees. Knights and soldiers yell and duck as branches come ripping down, and Balekin staggers back as the fist of air strikes him a blow. But he is strong—stronger even than Madoc—and he withstands the wind, teeth gritted, but still on his feet, glaring at me and my daughter with an expression caught between rage and wild avarice.

The Mirror knight trots up to us, reaching out to touch Philomel lightly on the shoulder. Philomel's spell is sucked away, the wind dying immediately. My daughter lets out a sobbing scream and hits at the knight. I pull her back, keeping a desperate eye on Balekin, who now straightens up, eyes gleaming as he stares at Philomel with hungry greed.

"Move out!" snaps Madoc, and we do.

Philomel and Dogwood are still crying when we arrive at the encampment. It's over the mountain range, as Madoc said; we had to mount into the air to make it here. I haven't been flying for years, and it was strange to see the dark landscape spread out below; but not nearly interesting enough to distract me from the gloomy realization that not even the goblin tribe is going to be able to help us. We're already too far away, surrounded by too many powerful faeries. Perhaps it's just as well. I shiver, thinking of my friends cut down by Madoc's knights, Balekin's men.

We ride in among the tents of the encampment, and Madoc dismounts, pulling me and the children down after him. Dogwood and Philomel are both terrified and miserable, huddling close to me, eyes wide as they stare around the camp with its tents. _Stay close to me, _I say. _Be brave, both of you._

"I'm tired, Mommy," sniffles Dogwood.

_I'm sure we'll get to sleep soon._ I look up anxiously. Madoc's waiting courteously for us to orient ourselves and finish our conversation, but he's starting to look impatient. I stretch my aching legs, wincing at the pain: I'm out of shape for riding. _Just keep quiet and go along with it for now. And don't try anything else, Philomel, please._

Exhaustedly, they take my hands and shuffle along after me as I follow Madoc to the central tent. Behind us, Cardan, Jude, Vivienne, Heather and Birch are all offloaded from their horses and escorted after us. I guess this is going to be a mass debriefing, as we're all shoved into the tent. I only hope Balekin isn't invited.

Inside, Madoc's tent is luxurious, in an army camp kind of way. The children stare, huge-eyed, at the embroidered hangings and gleaming swords placed handily on the rack. I give the décor a sour look. How lovely to see that my dear old foster father hasn't changed in the smallest detail since last I knew him: still completely obsessed with weapons, not to mention his own power and status.

"Here." Madoc gestures at two benches, covered in furs. "Sit down, all of you. This is going to be a long talk."

"I bet it will be," Cardan says, giving a huge yawn and sitting down. "It's weary work, being kidnapped. Say, Madoc, what do you say to letting us all get some sleep before we start the interrogation?"

"I'm afraid not, Your Highness," Madoc says with strained patience. "Taryn, sit down."

Reluctantly, I sink down on one of the benches, the children beside me. The bench is hard under its furs. The children huddle close.

"You." Madoc motions at Birch, standing unobtrusively back. "Come here."

Reluctantly, he trails forward. "Yes?"

Madoc fixes him with a gimlet stare. "Tell me how Taryn came to your valley. Tell me all about your association with her."

Birch draws himself up, shoulders set. "Albia was brought to the valley by the unicorn." His voice rings clear and steady. "Seven years ago. Thistleweft—a local weaver—hired her as her son Dogwood's nurse." He nods at Dogwood, dozing off beside me. "I met her a few days later, when Thistleweft introduced her to my tribe. She introduced her as Albia, not Taryn." He pauses. "Nine months later, she had Philomel." He nods at Philomel, who is still tense and staring. "Albia lived well and quietly among us, and adopted Dogwood when Thistleweft was killed by the manticore. She took over the cottage too, after Thistleweft's death."

He's leaving quite a lot out. Nervously, I eye Madoc, wondering how much he knows, but his face is unreadable. "I see."

He paces back and forth before us. I sense he's feeling his way through a whirlwind of emotion and questions. "Translate for Taryn, goblin." Birch nods, standing ready.

Madoc paces on. The silence stretches unbearably.

He halts before me at last. "Taryn: why did you leave?" His hands descend on my shoulders again, and I fight not to shrink away. "How did you escape? Why did the unicorn manifest herself to you? _What happened to you_?"

The question I've been dreading. I just look at him, not even making the attempt.

"Answer me, Taryn." Madoc's voice takes on a dangerous timber.

"There's no use scolding her, sir." We all look up at Heather, speaking for the first time. "She can't talk about it at all. She's under a curse."

Madoc looks at her sharply. "I know you…You're my eldest daughter's paramour, aren't you?"

Levelly, she nods, not looking at all intimidated. "My name is Heather, sir. Vivi's told me about you."

Madoc gives a wry smile. "I'm sure she has." His gaze snaps back to me. "Taryn…Who cursed you?"

Silence. My palms sweat. Everyone's looking at me. Even Birch is, puzzled by the sudden, ominous pause. Even the children stare up at me quizzically.

"Well?" demands Madoc.

"Taryn?" says Vivienne gently. "Can we…should we…?"

I'm balanced on the edge of a precipice. Beside me, the children shiver like rabbits under the swoop of a hawk. I try to think. Madoc must find out eventually—it may as well be now as later. But not like this.

Slowly, I nod. I sign at Birch. "She says," Birch translates, "that you can tell him, but the children must leave."

"No! I don't want to go!" Philomel wails. She clings to me. Dogwood sobs.

I hug them. _It will be all right. Just for a minute._

"No!" Philomel clutches me like she'll never let go.

_No, Philomel. I'm sorry, but I have to speak to Madoc alone._

"I'll go with them," Heather volunteers suddenly. She looks at Madoc. "Can you lengthen the range of your spell, sir?"

He nods, and takes out the wand again. Both children shrink back as he approaches, but he taps each of them lightly, and they blink as the spell loosens a little. Madoc goes to the side entrance and calls. Two of his knights, including the Mirror, come in, saluting. "They'll escort you out," Madoc says to Heather. "Stay with the children. And no talking to anyone."

"I'll go, too," Cardan says. He stands. "I'll stay with them," he says to me, unusually serious. "I'll make sure they're safe."

I nod, grateful beyond measure. Even Balekin isn't going to try and snatch Philomel if his brother's there with her.

"Very well," says Madoc. "But, like I said, no talking to anyone."

"Yes, sir." Heather nods. "Come on, kids, we'll find somewhere quiet…"

It takes some doing to extract the kids from my arms—partly because I don't really want to let them go myself. But at last Heather and Cardan escort them away, streaming-eyed and staring back at me, two of Madoc's knights in attendance. I feel a pang as the tent flap falls shut behind them, a wrench like a physical loss. I hope so much they'll be safe. I also hope Balekin is on the far side of the camp.

Madoc watches them go. "That mortal of yours is quite collected, isn't she?" he says to Vivi. "Excellent self-control. I salute your good taste."

Vivienne glares. "You leave her alone."

Madoc shrugs, dismissing Heather, and turns back to me. "Now: what is it that you have to tell me?"

The tense silence falls again. Everyone looks at me. Slowly I nod at Jude, my heart sinking.

Jude clears her throat, takes a deep breath. "On the night of the New Year's ball, Madoc, seven years ago, Balekin…got Taryn on her own. He silenced her voice when she tried to scream. And he…he forced himself on her." The horrible words fall into the shattering quiet. "Then he cursed her," she goes on, hastily, as if to get it over with, "never to let anyone, by word or deed, know anything about what happened. She's under those two curses still."

Absolute, utter silence. Madoc is like a statue of oak, face utterly expressionless. Birch, on the other hand, gapes at me, eyes wide pools of horror.

"Albia?" he whispers. "Albia, is that true? That man…he…?"

I can't nod. But tears come to my eyes.

"No. No, no." He shakes his head, violently, as though that will erase what happened. He makes as if to touch me; then pulls back. "Albia…"

"What happened then?" Madoc demands, voice clipped.

"The unicorn manifested," says Vivienne now. "In response to Taryn's pain. She spirited Taryn away to the valley. Then…she had Philomel."

"Balekin's child?" Madoc asks, still in that hard, clipped tone.

"Yes," Jude says shortly.

Madoc stands rigid. "If she is under a curse not to tell anyone," he says at last, "how did you find out?"

"Taryn embroidered the whole story into a tapestry," Jude explains. "I found the tapestry where she'd hidden it."

Silence falls again. I can't look at Madoc. I can't look at Birch. I don't know which is worse, Birch's open horror or Madoc's ominous stillness. I stare at the rug, in hideous limbo.

Madoc takes a deep, shuddering breath. Very slowly and carefully, he turns away, to pour himself a glass of wine from a nearby stand. The gurgle of the wine is loud in the silent tent.

Then, sudden as a lightning strike, he throws the glass down and dashes the jug to the floor in a single, savage movement. We all flinch back, and no one dares move as, in a series of abrupt, shattering motions, Madoc wrecks all the glasses and breaks apart the stand. Splinters and glass shards go flying.

When the stand is destroyed, Madoc stands over the wreckage, fists still clenched. He takes another deep, deep breath. "I suspected this," he says at last, tonelessly. He lets out a small, unhappy chuckle. "Quite something else, though, to have your suspicions confirmed…"

"What?" Vivienne stares at him, gaping. "You…you _knew_? And all this while you were working with Balekin—!"

"I did not _know_." Madoc is getting himself under control now, the tension leaving his frame. Or, rather, coiling up inside him, ready to be unleashed at a more opportune moment. "I _suspected_. And surely even you, Vivienne, would not expect me to accuse a Prince of Faerie of such a crime without firm evidence."

Vivienne's gasping for breath. "My God, Madoc," she whispers, "did you ever care for Taryn at all?"

"Did I care for her?" Madoc wheels around, hands lashing out; he only just pulls himself back from striking Vivienne. "Did I _care _for her?" Madoc repeats, voice raw with emotion. "You are young and thoughtless, Vivienne, and you have no idea what I've been through these last seven years! You have no idea what it is to work with a creature you suspect of such a crime against your child. Acting his friend. Never letting him know that you suspect. You have no idea what it is to lie awake, wondering where your daughter is and what she suffered!" He lowers his voice. "But I do. I did. I used Balekin to find Taryn because he was the best tool to hand: Faerie's finest hunter, with the power and resources of a prince. But if you had any notion how many times I came close to killing him…" His hands fist again, clenching tight as drums. "You cannot know. You are not a parent."

Another silence falls. I catch my breath, staring at Madoc, at the open pain on his face. Vivienne may not be a parent, but I am. And I think I know—I can feel—what Madoc went through these last seven years. How he suffered, and what he was willing to do, on my behalf.

"And did you think it was easy for us?" We all turn to Jude. Her gaze is steady and direct on Madoc, her voice quiet. "When Taryn was missing and we had no idea what had happened to her?"

Madoc's fists loosen. He takes another deep breath. "No," he says, voice calming again. "No, I never thought it was easy for you." He turns to Birch. "You left some things out of your narrative, goblin," he says dryly. "The bit about Taryn's miraculous healing power, for example."

"What—?" Birch blinks. "How did you—?"

"He's been spying on us, Birch," spits Vivi. "Am I right, Madoc?"

"Ever since you left the islands," Madoc confirms. "Just quick little peeks, without sound, so you did not sense my spell. I saw Taryn living in that Tree. I saw her healing those wild fey with her hands alone. And I saw her children. That's when my suspicions truly took root," he adds to me. "Philomel has Balekin's mother's eyes."

I stare at him, feeling sick. Philomel has my rapist's mother's eyes. How disgusting. And Madoc saw it, which is even worse, and knew.

"You were spying?" Birch's forehead is wrinkled in thought. "Then surely you saw that Albia was in good health? That she was happy?"

"Indeed," Madoc nods. "That was a great relief."

"Then why?"

Madoc cocks his head at him. "Why what?"

"Why did you kidnap her?" Birch sounds genuinely bewildered. "I can tell you love her. If you could see she was safe and free and happy, why not leave her alone? Why drag her back to Court, where she has no desire to go? Why expose her to…to Prince Balekin? Why not just let her alone, in peace?"

Madoc stares at Birch like he's suddenly started speaking Ancient Urdu. Birch stares back, even more puzzled by Madoc's incomprehension and incredulity. But of course: it would never, in a million years, occur to Madoc to leave one of his kin alone just because they're happier without him. Look what he did to my mother. Just as it would never occur to Birch to do something like that to someone he loved. Oh, Birch. For this alone, I could love…

I could love…

Oh.

Vivienne laughs, sardonic and mocking. "He's got you there, Madoc!"

Madoc dismisses Birch with a wave of his clawed hand. "You don't know what you speak of, goblin. Taryn and her children belong with their family, not a pack of strangers out in the wild, who only value her for her healing powers." He turns to me. "I assume those were given to you by the unicorn?"

I nod, and sign. "She says the unicorn blessed her, and her daughter," Birch translates. "And that wasn't the only reason we valued her," he adds, glaring at Madoc. "She was a friend to us all."

I look at him, aching for him to say…what? Something more, something personal. But he stands rigid and glowering at Madoc.

Madoc waves off the distinction. "Be that as it may, she didn't belong among you. She was raised a High Court lady, the daughter of a General of Faerie: she and her children deserve the High Court, not a hollow Tree in the middle of nowhere." His eyes gleam suddenly. "Indeed, we shall discuss what Taryn's children deserve…in detail. But not here. When we're home."

I feel a chill. There's a stir in the tent as we all share the same foreboding. "Oh, no," says Vivienne, voicing all our thoughts. "What are you up to now?"

"Nothing, for the moment." He goes to the side entrance and calls for his knights. "Bring Prince Cardan, the mortal and my grandchildren back."

After what seems a long time, the two knights return, each bearing a sleeping child in their arms. Dogwood and Philomel are limp in slumber, draped against each knight's chest. I give a sigh of love and relief, seeing my children safe and resting—even as I feel a certain guilty relief that Philomel's eyes are closed. Maybe I'll have adjusted to the idea of her eyes before they open again tomorrow. I hope so.

Heather and Cardan trail in after them, both looking shattered. "It was fine," Cardan says as Birch and I both hurry over. "The knights put us in this little storage tent. No one came."

"The kids fell asleep right away," Heather confirms. "They were exhausted."

"Very well," says Madoc. He takes out that wand again and strikes both children lightly. They moan in their sleep as the magic spikes in them again, tying them more firmly to Madoc. "Put them on the cots we prepared," Madoc orders, putting away his wand.

I forestall the knight carrying Philomel and take her myself. She barely stirs as I hoist her in my arms. Dogwood likewise hardly moans as Birch takes him. Heather was right when she said they were exhausted. My heart squeezes with fear and foreboding. What does Madoc have planned for my children? And how can I possibly protect them?

The knights lead us to the side, where, I notice for the first time, there is a screen set up. Behind it are one adult-sized cot and two child-sized ones. So, Madoc was already prepared to snatch my children along with me—probably from the instant he learned of their existence. I feel a leaden pulse of rage beneath my fear and tiredness.

Birch and I lay the children down. Neither stirs; they stay asleep, faces thin and exhausted. Oh, Dogwood. Oh, Philomel. What a mess I've landed you in. Beside me, Birch's breath hitches as he looks at Dogwood.

"Now," says Madoc, and we turn to face him again. There's a new, cold tone in his voice, and he's drawn himself up. He glares like he's furious with us. "Taryn and my grandchildren will stay here with me," he continues in that clipped, icy tone. "The goblin too. The rest of you will be under guard, and I do not want to see any of you talking to anyone, understand? This is not a pleasure trip. You are not here to make friends, or enjoy yourselves. You are a pack of willful, disobedient children, and I am taking you all home." While we're all blinking at this sudden turn, Madoc turns to his knights. "Make sure no one speaks to them," he says sternly, "not even Prince Balekin, or any of his soldiers."

And now I understand. We're not really in trouble—at least, not with Madoc. He's just trying to insulate us from Balekin and his men by implying that we are all in deep disgrace and being isolated as punishment.

Birch, unfamiliar with Madoc or his schemes, looks puzzled. I nudge him. _Just go along with it. He's trying to keep us away from Balekin._

At the mention of Balekin, his crest rises and his tail lashes slowly. His face pinches, even as he nods comprehension. I turn away from the rage and horror in his eyes. I can't bear seeing him like that, especially now that I've realized…I give a soundless, unhappy laugh. It's not an entirely unwelcome revelation, but at such a moment…!

Vivienne crosses the tent to stand protectively by Heather. "What about Heather?" she demands.

"She comes with us, of course," Madoc says coolly.

"No." Vivi takes Heather's arm. "Heather needs to go home."

"Vivi—" Heather starts, but Madoc overrides her.

"She needs to do as I say," he says. He gestures at the knights. "You two, leave for now."

They salute and leave. Vivi waits until they're gone before turning on Madoc. "What do you think you're playing at? Heather's got nothing to do with this—she needs to go back—"

"And if she does go back?" Madoc swoops on her, face urgent, voice even more so. "If she returns Ironside, without any protection? How long before Balekin finds her? How long before he squeezes all the information he can out of her? And then kills her or takes her hostage?" His eyes flick to Heather. "I assume you know about what happened to Taryn?"

She nods levelly. "Yes, sir." Her voice is calm, her face unreadable. It occurs to me that Heather would make a far better courtier than my sisters or I ever would. "I was there when we…figured it out."

"Then you understand why you cannot return Ironside," Madoc says. "Balekin would sniff you out in days."

"I appreciate the danger, sir." She's still so cool, so level. "And the reasoning behind your decision."

Madoc straightens, looking at her like she's suddenly done something interesting. "You're very calm," he states, eyes traveling over her. "Just what did Vivienne tell you about me?"

"Enough to know that I should take care around you, sir," she returns. "Your power is formidable, as well as your anger." She clasps her hands before her. "Certainly, I imagine that your protection shouldn't be rejected, especially in these circumstances."

Now even _Cardan _is staring at her, and Madoc looks reluctantly impressed. "By my sword and teeth," he murmurs, "I should keep you in Faerie permanently."

"Oh, no you won't," snarls Vivienne. Heather lays a soothing hand on her shoulder.

"It's okay, Vivi. Even if I had the choice, I'd choose to stay. There's no way I'm just leaving you here."

"Then it's settled." Madoc nods, and starts heading for the tent flap.

"Madoc?" Jude speaks up suddenly. Her face has gone very pale, and she's clutching her healed hand.

"Yes?" Madoc glances over his shoulder at her.

"Did you…make Taryn…Did you make her—punish that guard who bit my finger off?" I've never heard Jude's voice so high-pitched and strangled, like it's being dragged out of her by force. "Did you really do that?"

"Taryn told you, did she?" Madoc says absently. "Of course I did. It was what he deserved, and Taryn's duty as your sister." He glances at her curiously. "Why are you bringing that up now?"

Jude holds up her hand. "Taryn healed my finger, look." Her voice still sounds strange, and she's staring at Madoc like she's never seen him before.

Madoc spares Jude's hand a brief glance. "That must be a relief."

Jude and I both stare at him despairingly, and then exchange looks. Jude shakes her head slowly, and I sigh. Madoc doesn't understand. He really doesn't understand.

Sparing Jude's finger no further attention, Madoc goes to the flap, calling back the knights (who, I imagine, must feel like dogs on a jerking leash by now). "Escort the prince, my daughters and the mortal to the tent we have prepared for them," he orders. "Set a guard, and make sure they see and speak to no one. We set out at first light."

Which isn't far away at all. I slump with exhaustion, even as I watch my family file out of the tent, wishing I could call them back. Jude and Vivi both look over their shoulders at me, giving me quick smiles. "Don't worry," calls Jude. "We'll see you in the morning."

And then they're gone, leaving me, Birch and my sleeping children alone with Madoc. Birch and I both turn to him apprehensively, standing protectively in front of the children's cots.

I see the gleam of my knife on the table behind Madoc, my poison pouch placed beside it. I tap Birch's shoulder and sign. "She wants her knife and salt back," he tells Madoc.

Madoc tilts his head, considering. "In the morning," he says at last. I see herbs and earth arranged in a spell-circle around my weapons: in a surge of frustration, I realize I won't be able to snatch them secretly, even if I could sneak past Madoc, which I doubt.

"Birch." Madoc speaks now. "Step outside. I need to speak to Taryn alone."

Birch hesitates. "But—"

"_Now_, goblin."

Birch goes reluctantly to the tent flap, looking back at me. I have to fight the urge to snatch at him, to hold him with me.

The flap falls shut behind him. I'm alone with Madoc.

He approaches me. I can't help it; I shrink from him, backing away. But he takes no notice as his arms go out.

He pulls me against him and holds me in a long, long embrace. His arms, hard and strong as oak branches, are tight around me. I can feel him tremble with a deep emotion that he would never, ever show in front of others.

"Taryn," he whispers. "Taryn."

I'm stiff with surprise. I can count on one hand the number of times he's hugged me in my life. He might lay an approving hand on my shoulder or ruffle my hair affectionately as a child, but an embrace was the rarest gesture for him. He must have truly feared for me, those years I was gone—and he must feel true outrage for me now.

He lets me out of his embrace, but doesn't let me go. He holds me at arm's length, staring into my face. A bloody light has kindled in his eyes. Fury moves beneath his expression like the form of a shark beneath the water.

"Taryn, my daughter," he whispers, a knife in the dark. "I promise you this: Balekin Greenbriar will pay with his life for what he did to you. These hands of mine shall slice his heart from his chest and feed it to you still bloody, and you shall have all his power in recompense for his crime. This I swear."

My mouth is dry. All I can do is stand and stare at him, frozen with terror. I should be glad, I know. Glad for Madoc's protection and his rage on my behalf, glad that Balekin will pay. That Madoc has sworn to make him pay. But all I can feel is an appalled horror, a despairing helplessness. Madoc is dragging me down into the bloody depths with him once more. Binding me to him, and to Balekin, with tethers of darkness and vengeance and murder.

Just like he did when I was a child and he killed my parents before my eyes. Only this time he's bound my children too.

He swoops down and plants a quick, hard kiss on my forehead. There's no affection in the gesture, no comfort: it's fierce with rage, a dark promise for the future. Sealing the covenant between us, whether I want it or not.

Then, finally, he lets me go. Striding the tent flap, he calls for Birch. I don't watch. I stagger behind the screen and sink onto the adult-sized cot, dazed. I hear Madoc's voice, talking to Birch, but I can't make out what they're saying through the ringing in my ears.

A form stands over me. "Albia?" Birch says hesitantly.

I can't help it. I pitch myself forward into his arms. He stands stiff a moment before softening against me. His arms go around me as I cry silently into his chest. We stand and sway together while, beyond the screen, our captor prepares to go to bed and, I have no doubt, plot his next move.


	14. Chapter 14: Journey

Journey

"Wake up."

I moan, shifting around, and stickily unglue my eyelids. For a moment, I can't understand why everything's so unfamiliar, and why I feel so afraid and miserable. Then I remember last night, and start awake, heart pounding, untangling myself from Birch.

On their cots, the children groan sleepily. Judging from the faint gray glow filtering in through the tent, it's some unspeakable hour of the morning. Madoc's standing over us like an escaped nightmare, already dressed for the day. He takes in me and Birch on the cot, and raises an eyebrow.

"Are you two married?" he asks with a level curiosity.

"No." Birch avoids Madoc's gaze as he disentangles himself from around me. Last night, he held me until I'd cried myself out before laying me down on the cot. He tried to move away then, to sleep on the floor, but I clung to him, unthinking, just desperate for him to stay. So he lay on the cot with me, holding me while I lay rigid, wracked by convulsive shivers, until I finally fell into a shallow, feverish sleep. I don't know if he slept at all.

"Lovers, then?"

"We're just friends." Still Birch avoids Madoc's eyes, and mine too, however I try to catch his gaze. "Come on, kids, time to get up."

Dogwood groans, barely shifting on his cot. "I can't," he whines. "I'm still tired."

"Get up and come to breakfast," Madoc orders. "We're leaving in an hour." He turns away, pulling the screen behind him. I glare after him a moment before trying to rouse Philomel.

She gets up reluctantly, red-eyed with exhaustion, her hair tangled. "I want to go home," she moans, clutching Lulu. She blinks her beautiful purple-and-silver eyes, and I remember what Madoc said last night, about her having Balekin's mother's eyes. But they just look like Philomel's eyes to me, even now: lovely and innocent and cross. It's still my daughter in there. I ease a little.

_Me too, sweetie. _I look around for a brush of some kind.

There's a small chest at the end of my cot. I scoot over and open it, and reel back under a sudden assault of the past. These are _my _clothes in the chest: my old clothes, from before I left Court. Of course: Madoc brought my old things with him. I push aside the mixture of rage and odd gratitude this thought arouses in me and root around. It's mostly filled with my old riding clothes, but I find my old silver brush. I handle it reluctantly—it brings back too many memories—but it does work on Philomel's hair.

"Any clothes for the kids in there?" Birch comes over to look.

"Yes," calls Madoc from beyond the screen. "I had a local hob run up some things for the children as soon as I learned about them. They're packed in with Taryn's things."

Philomel pauses. "That horrible old redcap's still there?" she demands, far too loudly.

Out beyond the screen, we hear the horrible old redcap in question pause in his movements momentarily.

Hastily, I hush Philomel, holding a finger to her lips. _Yes, he's there. He's not going to leave us alone until we reach Court._ Drawing Dogwood close, I lean in and sign conspiratorially. _While he's around, let's speak only sign language, all right? That way, he won't be able to understand us._

Dogwood grins. _We can say what we want! _he signs, eyes shining.

_Horrible, nasty old man!_ Philomel turns to stick her tongue out at the closed screen, and Madoc behind it. Dogwood does the same, raising his tiny crest, and giggles.

_Yes, but still, be careful. Don't give him any reason to punish us. _I cast an anxious, pleading look at Birch, who still hasn't met my gaze. _You too._

He sighs, but nods. _All right. _His mouth tightens. _Though I can't promise anything when it comes to Balekin. _His crest rises, flashing red tips and blue spots.

"Who _is _that guy, anyway?" Dogwood asks, forgetting to sign.

I hush him. _Sign language, remember!_ Birch widens his eyes, holding a claw over his lips.

They giggle, mirroring him. I get them into their new clothes, which are plain and serviceable and—I can tell already—enchanted to adjust to their fit as they wear them. Useful, I suppose. I go through the chest: Madoc had six sets of clothes, boy's and girl's, sewn up for my children. Mostly they're plain traveling clothes, but there's a beautiful little purple dress, sewn with silver, and a boy's formal suit in red velvet. They confuse me for a moment—why does he think the kids will need nice clothes during this trip?—before I spot a familiar-looking embroidered sleeve.

I shove aside clothing to dig up one of my old Court dresses, like an evil ghost. Just the one, though. Of course: we won't need fancy clothes on the journey, but we will need them to make a proper entry back to the High Court. General Madoc's family can't return to Court as paupers. My fists clench in the fabric.

_What's that, Mommy? _Dogwood asks, leaning over my shoulder.

Hastily, I shove the Court clothes back down. _Nothing._ Anger is a steady burn in my stomach. Ah, Madoc, you don't change. Always planning ahead, even when it comes to kidnap. Always paying attention to the appearances, even with a helpless woman and a pair of reluctant, terrified children you think are all your rightful property.

I glare at the mess of clothes in the chest. If I had my way, I wouldn't touch any of them. But I can't keep wearing my nightgown over my pants. Hiding a scowl, I turn away, take off my nightgown, yank a shirt on over my forest pants, and keep my old shoes. If Madoc doesn't like my outfit, he can lump it.

I meet Birch's eyes at last, and nod. He nods back. We take a deep breath and usher the children out.

The main tent is lit by dawn light, flowing in from the open flap. There's a folding table set up, with a chair at one end and lined with benches. It also has breakfast on it, the fragrance making my stomach hurt. I didn't realize how hungry I was.

Madoc's standing by the table. Nearby, the Mirror knight, Saxifrage, stands at the ready, and there's a camp orderly with a pitcher, ready to serve us. My stepfather gestures us to the benches with a sweep of his clawed hand, and we trail forward like we're heading to the scaffold.

We sit down, Birch and I wordlessly sitting on either side of Madoc, insulating the children from him. Dogwood, across the table, clings to Birch nervously, but beside me, Philomel, holding Lulu in her lap, turns to Madoc with a seraphic smile. _Hello, you nasty, evil old scut, _she signs._ I hope that food poisons you._

Dogwood, Birch and I all fight back snorts of laughter, even as Birch and I exchange covert, horrified glances. Madoc, midway through seating himself at the chair, freezes.

_Philomel! _I scold, even as I bite down a grin. I can't resist a twist of glee, seeing my arrogant, all-powerful stepfather—the great General Madoc of Faerie—kidnapper, murderer and original source of all my troubles—sassed by my six-year-old daughter. _Remember what I said about being careful!_

_But he can't understand us, _she protests.

_Yes, but he's not stupid. He can tell what you mean, even if he can't understand you._

She scowls. _I hate him. _She glares under her bangs at him.

Madoc stares back. "I see I'm going to need sign language lessons," he says dryly. He signals his orderly to start pouring drinks. "You can teach me," he says to Birch.

"Why me?" Birch demands sullenly, picking at his food.

"Because you're the only adult here who can both speak and sign," Madoc says, not unreasonably. He eats, teeth tearing into meat. The sight sickens me, and I turn away. Madoc's eyes flick toward me, but he continues to Birch, "You can start tonight. For today, I don't want to see any of you speaking to anyone, about anything, understand?"

"You made that clear last night," says Birch coldly. He eats part of an egg. "How long's it going to take us to get back to this Court of yours, anyway?"

"Just a week, given that we're riding Court-bred horses with travel spells," Madoc shrugs.

Dogwood moans. "A week!"

I'm not sure whether or not I agree with his sentiments. I dread the thought of journeying with Madoc and Balekin, but I dread returning to Court even more.

"Yes, a week," Madoc snaps. "Be grateful it's not two. And you're all to behave yourselves on the journey, or there'll be consequences." His glower seems especially aimed at Philomel, who glowers back.

"You're awful," she says, ignoring my frantic attempts to hush her.

Madoc seems to consider this, tilting his head to one side. "Yes," he says at last, thoughtfully, "I am. But I'm still your grandfather."

"No, you're not," Philomel mutters rebelliously, swatting sullenly at her breakfast. "If you were, you'd be mortal, like Mommy."

"I am your mother's stepfather," he says, drinking from his cup. "I've raised her since she was a child your age."

That's certainly leaving quite a lot out. I glare at him. Great Trees, what did my mother even see in this conniving, murderous, selfish old monster in the first place?

"Really?" Dogwood's frowning now. "Mommy always said she was taken here by a faerie husband who abandoned her in the forest," he says to my rising alarm.

"Did she?" Madoc eyes me, half-annoyed, half-amused. "Well, young man, I'm afraid that's just a story she told you, to keep you both safe and hidden, I daresay."

Philomel and Dogwood both turn to look at me accusingly. _I'm sorry, _I sign, face burning with shame and cursing Madoc to my soul. _I couldn't tell the truth. __I didn't want Madoc to find us._

"Oh." Philomel slumps, staring miserably down. _I wish it had worked, then._

I squeeze her shoulder. _Me too._

Somehow, we get through breakfast. When we're done, and Saxifrage and the orderly are clearing up, taking away the dishes and folding up the furniture, Madoc steps up to me.

"Here," he murmurs, handing me my knife and salt. "Keep them hidden. And don't use them unless it's a true emergency."

Tears sting my eyes at this, but I blink them back angrily. Damned if I'm going to show Madoc any gratitude. I slip on the pouch and knife, pulling the extra fold of shirt over them and wrapping my cloak close. I stand straighter, feeling a little better with my weapons back.

Philomel sidles up, eyes sly. _Hey, Mommy_, she signs. _Salt the redcap! _She makes a tiny throwing gesture with Lulu, and she and Dogwood both giggle. Birch smirks a little.

I shake my head, even though I have to smile at the beautiful image of Madoc staggering back, screaming, his eyes burning with poison. _Nice thought, Philomel, but that wouldn't be helpful. Come on, get your cloak on._ I help the kids on with their cloaks.

Madoc stands by, watching curiously. It occurs to me that he's never seen me being a parent before: never really seen me interact or care for my kids. "Did you truly raise these children all on your own, Taryn?" he asks.

"I helped," Birch says, and I nod in confirmation. "But Albia did most of it, and she's done a good job," he adds proudly. "She was Dogwood's nurse too, you know, before Philomel was born."

Madoc's subordinates draw back a little at this, and Madoc himself winces slightly. "Don't mention that to anyone," he says in a low voice. "Don't tell anyone that my daughter used to work as a servant."

For a moment, all I can do is stare at him. He's kidnapped me and my family—he knows the truth of what happened with Balekin—he knows Philomel is the Lost Heir—and _this _is what he's worried about? What people will think if they know I used to be a servant?

And then I can't hold it in. I stagger, hands on knees, tears pouring from my eyes as I laugh, peal after peal of silent, guffawing laughter at Madoc's expense. Every time I look at him, my laughter starts afresh, at the sheer, ludicrous absurdity of my stepfather's concerns.

Everyone watches me stagger around, bemused and nonplussed. "Just what," Madoc asks eventually, "is so funny?"

"I'm not entirely sure," Birch says dryly. "But if I were to hazard a guess, I'd say she thinks your worries are somewhat…misplaced."

Madoc's mouth tightens. "You'll learn, goblin." He waves that wand, and my laughter is abruptly cut off as the leash spell tightens again. "And you should know better, Taryn. Come, we're leaving."

He walks toward the exit, dragging me and the children after him. Dogwood growls, stumbling at the end of his leash, and Philomel mutters angrily. Any remaining hilarity quickly drains away, replaced by the steady burn of anger. I glare at Madoc's straight back, his broad shoulders. Of course, I think disgustedly. Of course he cares what the courtiers think. My dear old stepfather has always been completely obsessed with winning, at everything, all the time; and no one, not even a Grand General of Faerie, can really _win_ anything unless they have an audience confirming their triumph—or, at the very least, an opponent acknowledging defeat. No one be victorious in a void. Naturally Madoc has always cared passionately about what other people think: to be obsessed with winning is to be obsessed with someone else's opinion of you.

Birch steps up to me as we exit the tent. _Albia,_ he signs, behind the children's backs, _how is it that Madoc is your stepfather?_

_That's a long story, _I reply. I wince at the brilliant morning light. _Tell you later, all right?_

He nods. Then he stiffens as he spots something beyond me. His crest stands up, flashing red and blue, and his eyes narrow as he growls in sudden hostility and rage.

I turn, already knowing who I'll see.

Balekin. Striding across the camp, looking grimly determined, in his traveling clothes. I fight the urge to vomit, and step in front of Dogwood and Philomel. At my hip, my knife and salt are heavy and reassuring, but half of me wants to cower and hide, and the other half wants to grab my kids and run as far and as fast as I can.

Birch steps closer, still glaring, crest rattling with rage. I can feel him vibrating beside me. Madoc casts him a warning glance before saying mildly, "Good morning, Prince Balekin. Did you sleep well?"

From another nearby tent, Heather, Cardan and my sisters are being escorted, all of them looking as cranky and sleep-deprived as I feel. They spot Balekin. Cardan and Heather both stiffen, Vivienne's lips curl back in a snarl, and Jude's hand goes to where a sword would be if she wasn't stripped of her weapons.

Balekin pays no attention. He cranes around me, trying to see Philomel. "Hello, Philomel," he says in a warm voice that makes me feel sick. "I'm Prince Balekin Greenbriar. Did you sleep well?"

Philomel, my good girl, says nothing, but presses closer to me, holding Lulu tight. I push her further behind me. Balekin's mouth tightens, and I fight a smirk.

"She's a little girl, Your Highness," Madoc says. "And I've forbidden her and her family to talk to anyone."

Balekin scowls. "Why not?"

"Because I've had enough of my family whispering and conspiring in corners," Madoc snaps, glaring at Jude in particular. "I've had enough of them running off. So they stay with me, and they speak to no one during this journey."

"Like we'd _want _to," Philomel sneers. Frantically, I hush her, not daring to take my eyes from our captors.

Balekin's eyes flick to us, leaving trails of corruption on my skin. "I understand that Taryn can no longer speak to anyone anyway."

And he smiles.

That smile. For a long, horrible moment, I'm seventeen years old again: seventeen and helpless, on my back in that garden, skirts yanked up around my waist, feeling the stabbing and tearing inside, the unspeakable humiliation and violation. Balekin smiling, Balekin cursing me, Balekin having his will and then throwing me away, like a piece of garbage, into the void of anguish and despair—

And a small, warm hand slips into mine. "Mommy." Philomel looks up at me, eyes beautiful and innocent and scared. "Mommy?"

I remember.

I am not seventeen years old anymore. I'm not some helpless victim, the Court's plaything. I am Philomel's mother. I am Dogwood's mother. I am the Lady Healer, the Unicorn-Blessed, and I decided long ago that I would not play the evil games of faeries or courtiers. And I have children to protect.

I draw myself up, gripping Dogwood's hand, rough and clawed, while I hold Philomel's. I make myself look at Balekin. I stare him straight in the eye, not bending the knee, letting him see the full depth of my hatred and contempt.

His smirk falters. He blinks, looking—unnerved. Just for a moment, but it's there.

Now I'm the one who's smirking. Take that, you shit. I pull both my children closer, still looking Balekin in the eye. You may want my daughter, you loathsome putrescence, but she's mine. I will never let you have her.

He sees this in my eyes. His jaw tightens.

Madoc looks between us, an eyebrow raised. "Perhaps there's no need to converse, anyway," he says dryly. "Come, Taryn, children." He lays a hand on my shoulder, steering me away, though he has no need to; his spell yanks me and the children after him, preventing us from leaving his side. Walking close beside Madoc, I have a sudden insight into why he cast that spell. It's not just to keep us from escaping: it's to keep us out of Balekin's hands. After all, as long as we're tied to Madoc, Balekin can't get us alone.

And now I have to be grateful that my children and I are on a leash.

Birch slinks after us, still glowering at Balekin. He's noticed; my old nightmare raises an eyebrow, staring at Birch in haughty annoyance. My heart clenches, for there's no binding spell protecting Birch. _Stop it, Birch, _I turn to sign urgently. Maybe I can be defiant on my own behalf, but not on Birch's. _He can have you killed._

Birch snarls, snapping his jaws, but forces his gaze away, lowering his crest. As the camp disassembles around us, he lets a knight hoist him up onto a horse. Around us, knights and soldiers are mounting up, and even my sisters and their lovers mount without resistance.

Madoc's charger stands ready, held by a knight, with a large, mild-looking beast tied up behind it on lead reins. I guess today the children and I won't have to ride on Madoc's horse. "My lord," the knight says respectfully, bowing to Madoc. "Lady Taryn," he adds, bowing to me.

I frown at him. What's with this "Lady Taryn" business? They were calling me that last night, too, now that I think about it. And that's not right, is it? The servants and retainers always used to call me "Miss Taryn" before, and there certainly wasn't any bowing…

And suddenly the morning goes ice-white and frozen as I realize why.

"Mommy?" Dogwood tugs at my hand, little face scrunched with concern. "Mommy, are you okay?"

"Yeah," Philomel chimes in, peering up at me. "What's the matter?"

I stare down at her, my daughter. Her face, so young and so innocent. A little girl, holding a homemade rag doll. My lips move, forming her name in desperate prayer. Please, please, let me be wrong.

Madoc's hands go around my waist, and he lifts me up, mounting me on the horse tied behind his own, followed shortly by the children. I put my arms around them, gathering them close, as though this will keep them safe. Inside, my heart thunders.

"Move out!" Madoc snaps, and we gallop off into the sky.

It's a miserable journey.

Dogwood hates every minute. He lets out a scream as we mount into the air, cowering back against me as the land falls away. I pull him close, thinking he's afraid of the height, but he sobs, "Too much sky. Too much sky."

I glance up at the cloudless, empty vault. I hadn't thought of this, but I suppose it makes sense: except for last night, when he was too upset to pay attention, Dogwood has never been under the open sky in his entire life. Even the highest treeways are built well below the canopy, out of the reach of crag eagles, swooper dragons and other aerial predators that may or may not be immune to the goblins' covenant with the trees. Always, there was a protective, reassuring roof of leaves and branches over our heads, and now it's gone. Philomel too looks a bit intimidated, glancing upward, but she says, "It's okay, Dogwood. Don't look."

He doesn't. Dogwood rides rigid and clinging before me, eyes tight shut, while Philomel goes in the opposite direction. She starts craning over, so far she makes my heart thud, admiring the landscape so far below, pointing out lakes and mountains, exclaiming at the novelty of flight. "Look at that, Mommy!" she cries, pointing out a long, serpentine river, and shows the view to Lulu too. I try to smile and admire landmarks below, pulling her back from the edge periodically, while my horrible realization ricochets sickeningly in my mind. I also try hard not to express a strange sense of annoyance and betrayal—that she's _enjoying _this.

This must be how Vivienne felt, when we were first brought here and Jude and I started enjoying ourselves. Doesn't Philomel understand what's happened? Well, of course she does, but she's a child: she can't help enjoying the novelty.

Much worse, Balekin rides beside Madoc, just ahead. Fortunately, he's too busy riding to look back at us—much. I can feel his every glance like the brush of a rotting corpse. I concentrate on holding onto the children.

Naturally, he insists on eating lunch with us, when we finally halt at midday in a large, sunny meadow. "I'll be eating with you," he informs Madoc, dismounting when we land.

"Of course," Madoc says mildly. He forestalls me from dismounting on my own, lifting me down himself. I can't say I'm entirely ungrateful: I feel like I'm one big ache, from my bones to my mind, hurting with the strain of riding and with keeping my disgust and horror at bay. "Foxfire, bring Prince Cardan, the mortal and my daughters here," Madoc orders, hauling my children down.

The knights begin herding our fellow prisoners over. Beyond them, I can see Birch, staring miserably and helplessly after them.

Balekin scowls. "Why them?"

"They're my family," Madoc says reasonably. "Of course they'll be eating with me. The pavilion should be up momentarily."

"Oh, we get our own pavilion?" Heather says brightly. "Classy." She lets out a low whistle, watching the soldiers cast the spells that send the tent hoisting itself into the air. "Beats a roadside diner any day."

"What's a roadside diner?" Philomel wants to know.

"It's a place where they serve you bacon that gives you heartburn and pancakes that give you colic." Heather pokes her playfully in the stomach. "If you ever get to the human world, I'll take you to one."

Philomel gives a tired giggle. "That's silly!"

I glance at Vivi: has Heather been like this all day? She shrugs and shakes her head helplessly. I guess that means she has. I shake my own head, marveling.

"I thought they weren't supposed to talk," Balekin says, rather sulkily.

"They're not," Madoc says, glaring at us all warningly.

Heather turns guileless eyes on him. "What, I can't even talk to the _kids_? Try and cheer them up a little?"

He pauses. "You can speak to the children," he says at last, grudgingly. "But no one else."

"Oh, good," says Cardan brightly, and turns to the kids. "Dogwood, Philomel, will you tell the General that our tent simply isn't good enough? Absolutely squalid—and I object to having to share with anyone but Jude. If I'm being dragged back to Court against my will, I really do insist on some privacy, and comforts commensurate to my rank."

Dogwood looks up from clinging to my side. "What's 'commensurate' mean?"

"It means appropriate," Madoc says coldly. "And you're staying right where you are, Prince Cardan. You've proved yourself utterly untrustworthy and your father has specifically charged me with ensuring that you don't get away again."

"Children," says Cardan, "tell the General that this is poor repayment for the faerie who's kept his daughters safe on a long, dangerous journey into the wilderness. Ask him exactly what makes me so untrustworthy, and how sharing a tiny little tent with three women is supposed to secure me from escape. Ask him why my father has suddenly taken such a keen interest in me after a lifetime of barely acknowledging my existence, and—"

"Enough," growls Madoc, a muscle jumping in his jaw, and we are all herded into the pavilion, Cardan smirking and Jude fighting down a grin.

Naturally, it's a very strained meal. Heather does her best to engage the kids, and Cardan eats with urbane languidness, as though it's all been laid on for his royal benefit, but the rest of us stare at our captors with wariness and hatred, hardly touching our food. I wish Birch were here. But then I remember his reaction to Balekin this morning, and think it's probably better that he's not.

I can't take my eyes from Madoc and Balekin. They're like two wargs snarling at each other over a juicy bone, under the thin guise of polite conversation. Every few minutes, Balekin's eyes flick to me or to Philomel, bright with avarice. I just know he's thinking furiously, wondering how to get us into his custody without telling Madoc that Philomel is his daughter. He won't risk that, for it would inevitably uncover the truth.

I suppose that's something to be grateful for, but not nearly enough. With an effort, I turn away and concentrate on Madoc.

My chief emotion, strangely, is one of disbelief: how can he be so damn _calm_? Smile and pour wine for a creature he's vowed to kill, who he knows has dishonored his daughter and insulted his house in the most grievous way possible?

An odd thought surfaces: Jude was wrong. She was wrong, all those years when she said that Madoc was just acting according to his nature when he killed our parents. That he was a redcap and couldn't help it. She's wrong. Madoc can control himself just fine—when he _wants_ to. He just didn't want to, that day.

And _that _just proves that it wasn't his honor Madoc was defending that day. It was his ego. But, really, isn't _honor_ just another word for _ego_? Just a pretty word for selfishness and vanity and pride. Just another way for the powerful and privileged to oppress the rest of us, to pretend they're doing right when they know they're doing wrong. Just like Madoc will, when he enacts what I know he will.

A silent growl rises in my throat. My frozen disbelief from this morning has gone, replaced by a simmering fury at what I know Madoc is planning, for me and for my daughter.

Perhaps luckily, I don't have time to dwell on it. Madoc's in a hurry; within an hour, he's calling an end to lunch. We head back outside, to an afternoon darkening with clouds, and the pavilion collapses behind us. Around us, the camp finishes eating and gets on their horses, with admirable speed and efficiency.

Madoc's hands go around my waist again. I give him a scowl as he pushes me back on my horse: why is he insisting on loading and unloading me and the kids himself, every time? We could mount ourselves. But then I see Balekin's glower, and I realize: Madoc wants to be seen touching us at every opportunity. It reinforces his claim on us. My stomach clenches.

Within minutes, we're back in the sky again.

By the time we land again, in the purple dusk above a winding river in the forest, thousands of miles from the valley, my physical discomfort has almost overcome my mental horror and anxiety. I'm actually grateful when Madoc pulls me off the horse; there's no way I could dismount myself. I let out a silent moan: who knew it was possible to be this _stiff_?

"Mommy?" Dogwood, placed on his feet beside me, looks at me anxiously. "Are you okay?"

_I'll be fine_, I manage to sign. _I'm just not used to riding anymore._ A twinge runs through me, and I wince.

"Here." He holds up his hands.

I hesitate. Everyone is around, all landing and dismounting, starting to unsaddle their mounts and set up camp for the night. Even now, Madoc is lifting Philomel down from the horse. If I use the unicorn's gift here, and Dogwood echoes it back on me, everyone will see. But, really, that may not be such a bad thing. Let them see my power.

I summon the unicorn's magic. Heads turn and mouths gape as the white light wreathes around my hands, clear and bright in the gloaming, and Madoc, still holding Philomel, turns sharply as I hold out my hands and Dogwood echoes the spell back onto me.

I let out a long, luxurious sigh of relief as the healing magic goes through me, melting away all my aches and pains under a wave of warmth. I raise my arms in a stretch, demonstrating my lack of stiffness to my slack-jawed audience, and smirk around.

Even Balekin looks taken aback. "That magic…"

"The unicorn's magic." Madoc speaks loud and clear, facing the crowd. He still holds my daughter, ignoring her wriggles and attempts to escape. "My daughter, Lady Taryn, was blessed by the unicorn," he announces to the camp, "with the ability to heal any wound or sickness. Isn't that right, Birch?"

Birch, escorted up to us, nods warily. "That's right."

Philomel wriggles harder than ever. "Put me down!"

Madoc smiles slightly and lowers her down; he's made his point. She runs to me immediately, taking my hand, and I glower at Madoc's back as he hauls us across the camp again, going slowly, letting everyone get a good, long look at his miraculous, unicorn-blessed daughter and her children. I think my little display may have backfired. I'd hoped to impress our captors with a demonstration of my own power, but it seems Madoc has turned even that to his advantage. He's used it to demonstrate _his _power. His possession of me, and of Philomel.

Behind us, I can feel Balekin seething with rage and frustration. Here he has yet to lay a finger on Philomel, and Madoc is parading us around, putting his hands on Philomel every chance he gets, cementing his claim on his granddaughter. The more Madoc demonstrates his possession, the more entrenched it becomes, and the harder it gets for Balekin to muscle in, to establish a claim on the girl he thinks will get him his throne. I smile a little: that's one thing to be grateful for, anyway.

As soon as we're inside his hastily-erected tent, though, Madoc drops his triumphant air. He turns to me, suddenly serious. His eyes play over Dogwood. "The boy's a Mirror, isn't he?"

"I'm an Echo," Dogwood says, scared but defiant.

"He can echo any spell back at you," Philomel says mockingly. "Better watch out."

"Quite so." Madoc looks at my son thoughtfully. "You need training up." He looks past us to the Mirror knight, who has slipped in after us. "Saxifrage, perhaps you can start, once we get home."

I step forward, mouth a grim line. I push Dogwood back and glare into Madoc's eyes. Maybe I'm a prisoner, but I'm still Dogwood's mother—and I have no intention of letting General Madoc turn my son into a military asset.

Madoc sees this in my gaze. "After I've discussed this with your mother, of course," he says. He looks past me to Birch. "And while we're waiting for dinner, Birch, you can start teaching me sign language."

I stare at him, simmering with anger and frustration. Why does Madoc always have to turn every situation to his advantage? Why does he always have the upper hand, no matter what? I think of my horrified realization of this morning, and feel my blood freeze. I look at my daughter, now slumping to the floor in exhaustion. Philomel may be powerful, but she's only six years old. There's no way she, or Dogwood, can put up any resistance to Madoc's plans for them.

And maybe I can't either.

Madoc monopolizes Birch all evening, making him drill him in the phonetic alphabet and basic signs. I wait for Birch to come join me and the children behind the screen, but Madoc makes him sleep out in the main tent. We don't get a chance to talk, either that night, or the next morning, or for the rest of the week.

For so it goes on, as we journey across Faerie on sky-galloping horses and very little sleep, my kids drooping and getting crankier every day, and Balekin a constant, horrible presence. That's one thing my children's bad temper is good for, I think with grim humor as I put a stop to yet another fight: at least it distracts me from my rapist.

Over mountains and forests and plains we travel, at breakneck speed, until I wonder that the poor horses don't drop dead of exhaustion. I'm genuinely starting to wonder if we'll ever stop, when one evening Madoc says to us, "Put on your Court clothes tomorrow. We'll be arriving."

Philomel and I look up from where I'm brushing and braiding up her hair. "What clothes?" she asks suspiciously.

"I had a dress made for you," he says. "You're to wear it tomorrow, for our entrance to Court."

"No, I won't," she mutters, toying sullenly with Lulu.

"Yes, you will," Madoc says calmly. "Make sure they both dress properly," he adds to me.

I glower at him helplessly. Everything has to be perfect for our grand entrance, huh? I want to spit at him.

Madoc sighs. For the first time, I notice that he looks weary: face hollowed and eyes shadowed. This week hasn't been much easier for him than it has been for us, but there's not a shred of sympathy in my heart. He brought it entirely on himself.

"I wish you'd stop looking at me like that, Taryn," he says. "Whatever you think of my actions, I _am _on your side."

I stare at him disgustedly. He really believes this.

Philomel and Dogwood both gape at him. "How are you on _our_ side?" Philomel demands. "You kidnapped us!"

"It was necessary." Again, he really believes this. Or, at least, he's convinced himself he does. Faeries are remarkably good at that. "You need to be with your family and the High Court. Your mother would never have brought you home on her own."

"We _were_ home!" Philomel spits.

"What sort of home was that? A one-room cottage in the wilderness, surrounded by monsters?" Madoc's gaze flicks to me. "Your mother certainly wouldn't have lasted out there. Mortals age so rapidly; she wouldn't have been able to outrun the predators for much longer. Actually, it's amazing she survived as long as she did. I can only assume the unicorn was protecting you all." He turns back to Birch. "Time for another lesson, I think."

Birch stares at him a moment, face unreadable. Then he begins to sign.

_Great Trees, how did a swine like you manage to raise Albia?_

Dogwood and Philomel both bite back giggles, looking away even as they sneak peeks back, hands over their mouths. I have to fight down my own grin, warmth spreading inside me. Oh, Birch, this is why I love—

Madoc hits him.

One minute Birch is standing, facing Madoc down; then he's on his back, one hand over his eye, Madoc standing over him, fist still clenched. Dogwood and Philomel both cry out, clinging to me in terror, and that's all that stops me from lunging at Madoc, my heart filled with white-hot rage.

"I salute your honor and courage, Birch." Madoc's voice is as calm as ever. "But consider that a warning." His eyes play over me and the cowering children. "That goes for the rest of you. I will have no backtalk or disobedience, no conspiracy or insolence, or Birch can take your punishment. Is that clear?"

I stare at him disbelievingly. But of course, of course: Madoc has seen this angle. Birch makes the ideal whipping boy: he's someone the children and I all care about deeply, but to Madoc, he's expendable. If my stepfather injures or kills Birch, it's no great loss to him, but it will hurt me and the children immeasurably.

And in that moment, I hate Madoc more than I ever did before.

Birch, holding a hand to his blackened eye, sits up, groaning. I dart to his side and help him to his feet. I lead him back to the screen, children clinging, glaring bloody murder over my shoulder at Madoc: care to stop me, stepfather mine?

He does not, but lets me lead Birch back. I pull the screen to and the children and I cluster around Birch as I sit him down on the cot. I gently pull his hand away and lay my palm over his injured eye. The white unicorn-light flashes, and the wound melts away.

Birch sighs gratefully, giving me a tired smile. Dogwood clambers up on the cot beside him, and Birch puts an arm around him.

_I hate him. _Philomel is standing rigid, trembling with rage, Lulu dangling from her grasp. Her hair glows like a vengeful star. _I hate him!_

_Philomel, stop it. _I kneel before her. _Don't try to fight him. Not now, not yet. Not like that. If you do, Birch will get punished._

She just shakes her head, tears trailing down her face, and I take her in my arms. At first her body is stiff and unyielding, but then she melts into me, shaking with trauma and exhaustion, and I hold my daughter as Birch holds my son, alone and helpless in the monster's grasp.

"Make sure you dress properly tomorrow," comes Madoc's voice from beyond the screen, deep and calm.

The next morning, I get the kids into their new Court clothes. They grumble, but they're too tired and too shaken from last night to really resist. Once I've gotten them dressed and Philomel's hair brushed, I have to blink at how beautiful they both look: even Dogwood looks like a noble, and Philomel, of course, glows like the faerie princess she is.

My heart clenches at this thought. It must show in my face, as Dogwood looks up. _What's the matter, Mommy?_ he signs.

I can't look into his wide, trusting eyes. _Nothing, sweetie. You both look wonderful._ I turn away to don my own dress.

It doesn't quite fit me anymore, and it's not one of my old, elaborate costumes that required Tatterfell's help to get me into, but it's still the fanciest, most beautiful gown my children have ever seen me in. Dogwood's eyes widen, and Philomel's face lights up. _You're beautiful, Mommy!_

I smile at her. The dress is too tight, constricting my breathing. _So are you, sweetie. Let's go out to breakfast._

We go out, in all our finery. Madoc is already waiting for us, pacing back and forth by the table. He's dressed in a fine black uniform, very military and formal. He looks us over and nods shortly. "Good."

Birch, hanging back, isn't dressed particularly fine—I guess it doesn't matter what he looks like—but he blinks at me, a slow sweep of eyelashes. "Albia—you look—" He pauses, and I catch my breath in hope and a strange embarrassment. "—Different," he finishes, still blinking.

_In a good or bad way? _I sign.

_I haven't decided yet, _he signs back, and my heart thumps oddly.

_B-R-E-A-K-F-A-S-T_, Madoc signs out the phonetic letters, glaring at us, a reminder that he is learning sign language fast, and our silent conversations won't be private for much longer. With some final resentful scowls, we all sit down.

_You both look good, kids, _Birch tells the children.

Philomel gives a weak little smile at this, but Dogwood stares down at the table. _I don't want to look good, _he signs miserably. _I want to go home._

_Me too, _Birch and I both sign at the same time, and look at each other in surprise.

Madoc eyes us over his cup's rim, but says nothing, in any language.

Outside, it's a lovely day. I feel as though I almost recognize these woods, from my journey seven years ago, though that was entirely by night, and now they're lit by a beautiful clear morning. Madoc yanks me and the children across the dismantling camp, Saxifrage in close attendance, and another knight chivvies Birch off to his own horse.

Naturally, Prince Scumwadkin is already waiting, slapping his gloves against his open hand in impatience. He straightens when he sees us coming. "You look lovely, Lady Taryn," he smirks. I fight to keep from wincing; his use of my new title is like a blow. His eyes play over Dogwood and Philomel. "Your children as well." He gives Philomel a smile, and she draws back. "Indeed, Philomel, you look like a princess."

"I'm not a—" Philomel starts.

_Hush, Philomel! Don't speak to him! _I push both children behind me, clutching their hands. I vibrate with rage and loathing as I glare at this monster, worse than Madoc ever was. Fuck you, fuck you, _fuck you_, you worthless piece of faerie shit, you vile little rapist, you disgusting, suppurating boil on the face of the world. You may want my daughter, but if it's the last thing I do, I'll make sure you _never_ get your filthy hands on her!

He draws back, seeing all this in my eyes. His lip curls, but he can do nothing but watch as Madoc swings the children up onto the horse and hoists me after them. I take a deep breath, trying to calm down, as the children turn to stare at me.

_Who is that man, Mommy? _Philomel asks me. She glances at Balekin, and I have to fight the urge to pull her back around. _Why's he always looking at us like that? Why do you always get so angry when he's around?_

And here I thought I'd been hiding it. Smiling ruefully, I sign, _We used to know each other. We didn't get along._ I pet her hair, and squeeze Dogwood's shoulder. _Don't ever try to talk to him, children. Stay as far from him as you can. All right?_

Wide-eyed, they nod. _I don't like him anyway, _Philomel signs, and Dogwood nods.

I smile at them fondly. My children have such good taste.

Off to the side, I see Heather, Cardan and my sisters all being escorted onto their own horses. They're dressed a little more neatly than usual today, but nothing like the splendor Madoc's put me and the children in. I guess we alone are going to be the stars of Madoc's little side show today—and Madoc himself, of course. I smile grimly.

"Move out!" yells Madoc, and off we go.

We're not far from the coast at all. Soon I see the ocean, a straight, perfect line on the horizon that rapidly draws closer, unfurling into a great, wrinkled blue plain, dashing itself against the long coastline. The children gape, even Dogwood losing his fear in wonderment. "Is that the ocean, Mommy?" he asks, craning over to look at it.

_Be careful. _I pull him back. _And yes, that's the ocean. We're heading for some islands, far out to sea._

Indeed, farther than I remember. A journey that seemed to take the unicorn only a few minutes takes ordinary faerie horses half a day, galloping soundlessly over the endless blue water. They could take forever, as far as I'm concerned. Dread is a pit in my stomach, digging itself deeper the closer we get to Court. I scan the horizon for the islands, hoping they never show. I don't want to arrive. I want never to arrive.

But of course they eventually hove into view: a vague shadow at first, that resolves quickly into the great hulks of Eldred's islands, the waves smashing against the cliffs and beaches. Indeed, the horses gallop faster when they see dry land and journey's end, wheeling over the islands, with their hills and woods and gardens, their mansions and palaces and fairgrounds. They're a gorgeous sight, like green jewels set in a sheet of blue silk, and they make my stomach drop in black despair. The children gasp in wonder and amazement as I close my eyes under the assault of memory. But nothing can stop our final descent.

There it is: Madoc's stronghold, my childhood home and prison. Bigger than I remember, grander (of course, I've done my best not to remember it at all), with servants and retainers hurrying to line up outside and welcome the master and his prodigal descendants home. I feel rather than see Balekin's scowl at Madoc's taking center stage, the prince relegated to the background, as my stepfather grandly lands on the drive before the house, and my own horse's hooves touch the ground.

And now—my heart catches—there's a familiar figure. It's Oriana. My stepmother, paler than I remember, face thinner, hurrying from the front door toward us, all formality forgotten. "Taryn?" Tears sting my eyes at the sound of her voice. It's been so long since I've heard it. I thought I'd never hear it again. "Taryn! Is that really you?"

"It is indeed." Madoc, having dismounted, now lifts me from the saddle one last time, carrying me high and swinging me around so everyone can see me, in my Court finery and in his power. "Lady Taryn and her children, Dogwood and Philomel. Our grandchildren, Oriana."

A murmur arises from the watching crowd, of surprise and interest, as Madoc lifts down my children, first Dogwood and then Philomel, lifting them high, letting everyone get a good look, before placing them on the ground. Dogwood rushes to bury his face in my skirt, but Philomel stands rigid, fists clenched at her sides, Lulu dangling, staring at the ground.

Oriana draws back slightly. Her eyes widen as she takes in Philomel. Her gaze flicks to me and then, almost imperceptibly, to Balekin, still on his horse, scowling.

Perhaps only I see the knowledge and horror flash through her expression, her realization of what must have happened, and only because she's so close. She catches her breath, face whitening further. Then she swirls around me. She takes me in her arms and embraces me tightly, as though that will protect me. I can't help but hug her back, heart full of a painful gladness, at her touch, at her scent.

"Taryn," she whispers fiercely. "_Taryn_."

"Who are _you_?" Philomel demands rudely, holding her doll like a shield.

Oriana releases me and kneels down on the ground, to smile into Philomel's eyes. "I am Lady Oriana, your mother's stepmother," she says gently. "And I'm glad to meet you. You're Philomel, I assume? And this is Dogwood?" She turns to Dogwood, who buries his face deeper in my skirt. "Welcome home."

"This isn't our home," Philomel mutters rebelliously.

"Perhaps not now," Oriana says. "But I hope we can make it welcoming for you." She stands, turning to Madoc. "I'm very glad to see your safe return, husband," she says, sweet and gentle. "And that you managed to collect all the children." She smiles at Cardan, Heather and my sisters as they're herded forward, sallow-faced, exhausted and resentful, followed closely by Birch.

Cardan manages a bow. "Greetings, Lady Oriana. We're all back home, aren't we?"

She gives him a curtsy. "Indeed you are, Your Highness. Welcome back." And now Oriana turns the sweetest, gentlest smile imaginable on Balekin, and sweeps him her deepest curtsy. "Prince Balekin," she practically coos. "Your Highness. How thoughtful of you to devote so much of your time and energy to helping Madoc find and return my daughters and grandchildren, especially at such a time."

He smiles thinly. "I was happy to do so, Lady Oriana."

"I'm sure you were." One hand still on my back, Oriana wheels me around and starts herding us all toward the house. Somehow, she's got me and the children by her side, my sisters and their lovers ahead of her, but Madoc and Balekin are left trailing away behind. "Let's all go inside. You must be exhausted…"

Up the steps we all go, and into the house. The rush of memories this brings—the scent of the hall—is enough to make my eyes squeeze shut, watering.

"Miss Taryn?" A familiar voice says. I open my eyes to see, of all people, Tatterfell, hovering nearby, staring at me disbelievingly. "Is that really you?"

"It is indeed," Madoc says brusquely. "And it's Lady Taryn now."

Tatterfell's eyes widen, but she sinks into a deep curtsy to me. "Lady Taryn," she says meekly. Her eyes play over the children, wonderingly.

As well they might. She'll know, soon enough, the reason for my elevation. Because, while "Miss Taryn" might have been good enough for the bastard stepdaughter of a High Court General, the mother of an heir to the High Throne of Faerie must have a proper title.

Because that's what I am to Madoc now. That's what I realized, that first morning. What Madoc is going to do.

He's going to try and put Philomel on the throne. He's going to try to make her High Queen. And to hell with whether or not she survives the experience.


	15. Chapter 15: Stories

**(Note: this chapter portrays Madoc's mansion as having modern indoor plumbing. I know this isn't canon, but if faeries need to use the bathroom in this universe, it's reasonable to assume they'd copy modern conveniences from humans.)**

Stories

The moment we're all inside, Oriana turns to Balekin with that butter-wouldn't-melt smile. "Your Highness," she coos, "how you honor us by staying, when you must be so exhausted. Why don't you go sit in the parlor while I have the servants bring tea?" She turns to me. "Taryn, dear, I'll escort you and your children to the rooms I've had prepared. You all look dead on your feet."

Balekin, mid-way through stepping toward the parlor, halts. "Perhaps Lady Taryn could join me."

"Oh, but Your Highness…!" Somehow, Oriana's interposed herself between me and Balekin; I can only see her slim back and flowing skirt. "Taryn is so tired—and filthy! She's not fit company right now." She lets out a tinkling laugh. "I can't have it bruited about Court that I let my stepdaughter entertain a Greenbriar while caked in dirt, can I? What would people say?"

He draws back at this. Of course: in his way, Balekin is just as obsessed with public opinion as Madoc is. "Well—"

"All right, then!" Oriana says brightly, and turns to Madoc. "Husband," she says in that honey-gentle tone, "why don't you take that spell off Taryn and the children so I can take them upstairs?"

Madoc looks momentarily sulky—for, despite our sullen attitude, he has deeply enjoyed having me and my children under such powerful personal control—but he can hardly refuse. He takes out the wand and taps each of us with it. Philomel and Dogwood both sigh in relief, and I take a deep breath, feeling that awful leash lift away. I grab hold of the kids and take several steps away, just because I can. Birch joins us, glowering at Madoc.

"Come along, all of you." Oriana curtsies to Balekin and begins shepherding all of us—me, the children, Birch, Cardan, Jude, Heather and Vivienne—toward the stairs. "You all must be ravenous, and certainly you are all in desperate need of a bath! I'll have food sent up. You can stay with Vivienne," she adds to Heather, who nods politely. "And Prince Cardan, yours and Jude's suite is all prepared."

Cardan nods, and Jude looks unsurprised. I guess they've been sharing for a long time now. I give Cardan a narrow-eyed look. I've just thought of another reason, besides loneliness and sexual desire, that Cardan may have embarked on an affair with Jude. After all, sleeping with the daughter of the house, insisting that she share his bed, is very much a royal prerogative. This may have been his way, at least at first, of asserting that, although a pariah-prince, he was still a prince. I sigh, feeling exhaustion settle over me. I suppose it hardly matters now.

"After them," I hear Madoc order some of his knights, including Saxifrage the Mirror. "Stay with Taryn and the children."

They salute and fall into place behind us. I try not to be grateful for their presence, as Balekin's horrible gaze follows me and my family up the stairs, until we turn the corner and climb out of sight.

I let out a long sigh: it's such a relief to get away from Balekin, and from Madoc. But touring this house—_this _house—makes me wince. There are too many memories in this place, and too many of them are awful. I can feel that old weight, that old helplessness, settle over me as I shuffle along the corridor.

Dogwood and Philomel, of course, don't share my disgust. They stare around, wide-eyed and silent, at the interior of the house. They've never seen such grandeur. Oriana smiles at them gently. "I hope you will soon feel at home here," she says warmly. "I had the guest suite made up for you and your children," she adds to me, "as soon as Madoc sent me word. You can all stay together. It's right across from mine and Madoc's apartment."

Ah. Lovely. Just where Madoc can conveniently keep an eye on us all. I nod wearily. It _is _the best solution, under the circumstances. I can keep the kids with me. And I don't have to go back to my old room. I shudder at the thought of having to sleep there again.

"Honestly, Lady Oriana," Cardan drawls, "keeping Taryn and her children across from your apartment, herding us around with an armed guard…it's as if you don't trust us all of a sudden."

"I'm afraid Madoc's trust is easily lost, Your Highness," she says neutrally.

Cardan stretches his arms over his head. "Well, it's rather illogical in this case," he points out reasonably. "After all, we've all done exactly as he wanted, haven't we? We led him to Taryn and her children, quite obediently, and we were all captured, exactly as he planned, and dragged back to Court, right on schedule. Why are we all prisoners still?"

Oriana gives him a rather cold look. "Your father was not terribly pleased with your sudden flight, Your Highness," she says in clipped tones. "Leaving Court without permission, at such a time, could be considered treason. King Eldred wants you under watch for the moment."

Dogwood rouses from his stupor. "What's 'under watch' mean?"

"It means I'm not officially a prisoner, but not free either," Cardan explains. "And someone's going to be watching my every move for the foreseeable future." He pokes Jude in the ribs with a grin. "That means you'll be watched too, Jude. Just think of the fun we'll have forcing our minders to watch while we make out!"

"Cardan," says Jude, studying her fingernails, "has anyone told you that you can be completely disgusting sometimes, even for a faerie? _I _am no exhibitionist. Of course, I'm mortal, and thus have a sense of privacy and personal boundaries."

"What's an 'exhibitionist'?" Dogwood asks, wide-eyed. Behind us, Heather and Vivi are both vibrating with repressed laughter.

Oriana rallies. "Never mind for now, Dogwood: your aunt is simply being silly." She glowers at Jude over his head before turning to hail a couple of footmen. "Take them to their rooms," she orders. "Make sure they get everything they need. The mortal, Miss Heather, will be staying with Miss Vivienne."

Jude and Vivienne both scowl as their escorts step forward, but Heather bows politely. "I'm sure we'll be very comfortable, Lady Oriana," she says. "And I'll sure appreciate the chance to wash up."

Oriana blinks a little, surprised. "You have very nice manners, Miss Heather."

"For a mortal?" A mischievous grin crosses Heather's face. "I do my best, ma'am."

Oriana smiles slightly, but waves her and the others away. They trail off reluctantly. "Don't worry. We'll be back soon," Vivi whispers to me, and kisses me on the forehead, quickly, before being led away.

Jude gives me a worried look over her shoulder, but goes without protest. I hear her whispering to Cardan, "And you can forget about us 'making out', at least until you've had a bath or three."

"Certainly, my dear Jude, if you join me…"

Oriana shakes her head, watching them disappear. "Those two." Her eyes soften as she turns to me, and she takes me in her arms again. "Oh, Taryn." She squeezes me hard, as if she just can't help herself. "I can't tell you how glad I am to see you again."

Tears prick my eyes, and I'm not sure whether they're tears of happiness or sorrow. Birch and the children all stare. "Are you Mommy's mommy?" Philomel asks, clutching Lulu.

"I am her stepmother, like I said." Oriana releases me and steps away, eyes brilliant. She smiles at the children. "That makes me your step-grandmother, I suppose. Come, all of you." She gives Birch a doubtful look. "You too, I suppose."

She leads me to hers and Madoc's private wing on the second floor, and I wince as we pass the closed door to his study: it brings back memories of that last, fateful day, when Madoc stood me in his study and demanded to know why I wasn't talking. So much has changed since then—and yet, it seems, I'm still as helpless as ever.

The apartment across the hall from Madoc's is opulent, of course: it's the suite Madoc reserves for important guests. The children gasp and cling closer as the full majesty of the sitting room alone is borne on them, and I don't think they notice how the knights fan out: one by the door, one by the window, and Saxifrage hovering over us. But Birch notices. He makes a sour face and signs, _We're not getting out, are we?_

I shake my head, and he smiles grimly.

Oriana, busy issuing instructions to a maid outside the door, glances over. "I take it you—ah—understand Taryn's sign language—ah—Birch?"

"Yes," he says shortly. "That's why your husband brought me along in the first place."

"Then where do I put you?" she murmurs, standing back in perplexity. "Taryn needs you, but…" Her little hand-flutter says it all: it's not appropriate for a tree goblin to sleep in the family rooms. How improper that would be. Whatever would people say?

Birch's jaw clenches and his crest rises. "I'm not leaving Albia and the children." Philomel shakes her head fiercely in agreement and takes his hand, glaring at Oriana. Dogwood steps up too, crest raised.

Oriana hesitates. I glower too, stepping forward. No way am I letting her stick Birch in the servants' quarters.

Oriana seems to recognize this. "All right," she says, giving way. "I suppose, given the circumstances…" She shrugs. "It doesn't matter too much."

Birch stares at her, bemused. Then, turning to me, he signs, _Is this all people do at Court? Obsess about what everyone else thinks?_

I nod. _Pretty much. _We exchange a grim smile.

Oriana sees our exchange, but chooses to ignore it. Instead, she goes to call for a footman, ordering him to see that food is brought up, and all our clothes. Tatterfell sidles in while she's giving instructions, beaming at me and waving. I give her a tiny smile and wave back.

Oriana sees, of course, but doesn't order Tatterfell away. Instead, she sits us all down in the miniature sitting room to start the interrogation as the food cart arrives, breathing heady fragrances over us all.

"Taryn," she says, hovering over me as I help myself to food and drink, "where have you _been_? Have you been…safe? Have you been hungry? Who's been helping you with these children? You look so different now," she adds helplessly. "Your hair's so short."

Dogwood and Philomel both giggle at this. "Of course her hair is short!" says Philomel, swinging her legs as she sits beside me, munching on a scone. "Heartwood cuts it for her."

"Who is Heartwood?" Oriana asks.

_My friend, the Red Branch chieftainess,_ I sign, with Birch's translation. Then I start the whole story, signing and gesturing while Birch translates. Oriana drinks it all in, silent and steady. To her credit, she doesn't even flinch at the revelation that I worked as a servant.

"So you were safe," she says in honest relief. "I'm glad someone was looking after you. I couldn't bear it if…" She trails off, not meeting my eyes. I see a flicker of shame cross her face.

My mouth tightens, old resentment sullying my pleasure at seeing her again. For Oriana did nothing to protect me before, did she, when I really needed it.

_I saved Dogwood's life, _I say, pushing aside my anger. _The night I arrived, I used the healing gift the unicorn gave me to save Dogwood._

She sits up straighter, eyes going wide. "The _unicorn_?"

"That's right," says Birch proudly. "The unicorn gifted Albia with the magic of healing. She can lay her hands on anyone, and their wounds and sicknesses are instantly cured. Didn't that redcap tell you, in his letters home?"

"No." Oriana looks more shaken than I would have believed, staring and blinking. "But…The unicorn…"

"Yes. The unicorn." Birch folds his arms, jaw jutting aggressively, crest flashing blue spots. "What, you think she's unworthy of the unicorn's blessing just because she's mortal?"

"No." She shakes her head. "Of course not. Why would I think a stupid thing like that?" She seems to pull herself together. "Go on. What happened then?"

Still frowning at her, I finish my tale, describing how I became healer to the Red Branch tribe and how we all lived in the valley until Madoc and Balekin came for us. She listens silently, with no interruptions. When I finish, she takes a deep breath. "Well, I'm glad you had allies at least," she says. "I'm glad you had food and protection. You're all right." She reaches out to touch my knee.

That might depend on your definition of "all right". But I know she means well, and her relief is genuine. I cover her hand with mine, warm and soft.

By now, the kids have demolished the food cart, stuffing their faces. Oriana smiles at them. "It's good to see children with an appetite," she says warmly. "You both look like good, healthy children. They're a credit to you both," she adds to me and Birch, and we both sit straighter.

Dogwood looks up, still chewing. "I'm healthy 'cause Mommy used her unicorn gift on me," he says indistinctly. "When I was a baby."

"So she told me. It looks like she's done a good job raising you since then, as well. And…Philomel." A shadow crosses my stepmother's face as she turns to my daughter: her knowledge of Philomel's terrible conception. "You have very powerful magic, I'm told."

I eye her over my cup's rim. Just what has Madoc been putting into his letters home…? Once more she avoids my gaze.

"Yup." Philomel washes down a bite of cake with a swig of water. "But I can't really use it, not with _her _around." She glares at Saxifrage, who stares blankly back.

Oriana stands. "Well, once you're settled here, maybe we can see about having Sir Saxifrage reassigned. But I'll let you have some time alone for now." She smiles gently on us all. "You all look exhausted. I'll let Tatterfell look after you." Tatterfell nods, beaming and standing at the ready.

Oriana swoops in for one last hug—one last tight physical reassurance of my being—and leaves the room. I hear her exchange words with some official-sounding faeries—I guess Madoc has already posted guards at the door.

Tatterfell smiles and curtsies to my children. They both draw back, suddenly shy and intimidated again. "Hello, children," she says warmly. "I'm Tatterfell, your mother's old lady's maid." She turns to me respectfully. "Would you like a bath now, Lady Taryn, now that you've all eaten?"

I nod, and she turns to go into the en-suite bathroom. Moments later, we hear water thundering into the tub. Madoc's mansion has indoor plumbing, based off the human model, the difference, of course, being that it all works by magic rather than complicated technology. I have to sigh a little: it will be nice to have indoor plumbing again.

I turn to Birch. _I'm going to give the children a bath_. Trees know, they need it, and it will give us something positive to do. _Will you be all right out here?_

_I'll be fine, _he signs back. He gives the knights a sullen stare.

_Please don't do anything rash_, I beg. _There's nothing to stop them killing you._

His face softens. _I know._ He pats my hand reassuringly. _I won't do anything to provoke them—not this time. Go have a bath._

Tatterfell comes out again. "All is ready, Lady Taryn!" she chirps. "Would you like my help?"

Smiling but shaking my head, I herd the children into the tiled bathroom. They both gape, having never seen anything like it before. Dogwood, upon sighting the large, steaming tub, balks. "We can't!" he says in a scandalized whisper. "Not in the house!"

_It's all right, Dogwood, I promise_, I sign. _Come on, let's get clean. We'll feel better._

"No we won't," he says miserably, but starts to take off his clothes. I imagine he's only too happy to get his Court clothes off. I know I am.

Despite everything, the bath goes well. I find myself reveling in the abundance of hot water; I've washed with buckets of cold water for so long that I'd forgotten what it's like to melt into a hot, hot bath. Dogwood takes more persuading, and he sinks in gingerly, complaining that it feels weird on his fur. Philomel, meanwhile, splashes happily, squealing, hair dark with wet and slicked back.

"Look, Mommy!" She surges across the bath at me. "I'm like a nixie!" She makes a face, splashing me.

Smiling, I splash her back, and we all three have a mini water fight—forgetting, just for a moment, our situation.

But the moment doesn't last long. The children start getting cranky, splashing and yelling at each other, and I get them out of the water and dried. Dogwood's exhaustion is catching up with him—he yawns and staggers as I run the towel over him, eyelids drooping—but Philomel seems more pensive than sleepy, staring at her feet.

I kneel before her, pulling the towel tight. _What's the matter, Melly?_ Aside from the obvious, of course.

She speaks slowly. She's already retrieved Lulu, dangling from her nervous grasp. "Madoc…he kidnapped you, right?" she says, voice hollow in the bathroom. "And Aunt Jude and Aunt Vivi."

_Sign language, remember. And yes, he did, when we were about your age._ Please don't let her ask for the whole story, not now…

She bites her lip, tucking her doll under her arm so she can sign. _Then you lied about my father, right?_ Dogwood stares, eyes huge.

Guilt stabs through me. _Yes. I'm very sorry, but I did_. I look deep into their combined, accusing gaze. _It was wrong of me. But I thought lying would keep us safe. I didn't want anyone to find us. Especially not Madoc. I didn't know how to protect you. I'm sorry._

"That's okay," she whispers aloud. "But…" She switches back to sign language, every gesture slow and heavy with a weird dread. _Is Madoc my father?_

"Eww!" Dogwood recoils in horror at the idea, crest snapping up.

Okay, I did _not _see that one coming. _No_, I say when I can move again. _No, he is not your father. I swear I'm not lying this time. _Sex with—no, no, I can't even think it. _Ask him yourself if you don't believe me, _I force myself to add, even though the idea makes me ill. _He can't lie to you._

Slowly, she shakes her head. _I believe you._ She pulls the towel back up her shoulder. She looks so small, so lost, so fragile, standing there naked with her hair still wet.

_If he's not my father, _she signs at last, _then who is?_

Both children look at me, eyes wide and trusting, even though they know that I've lied to them. Tears sting my eyes, and now more than ever I hate the curse, and I hate Balekin for making the curse, even though the truth would do them no good at all.

_I'm sorry_, is all I can sign. _I can't._ Then the tears escape, and I'm weeping in earnest.

"Don't cry, Mommy." Dogwood comes to my side then, a warm, comforting weight. After a moment's hesitation, Philomel cuddles in on my other side. "Please don't cry."

_I wish I could make this better. _I can barely sign. _But I can't. I'm sorry._

Philomel snuggles closer. "Don't worry, Mommy," she whispers in my ear, harsh with a child's innocent confidence. "We'll get free. _We'll get free_."

All I can do is shake my head, too awash with fear and worry to lie to her again.

When I get the children out, they're both staggering with exhaustion, and I'm not much better. The meal might have given us some energy, but nothing could prevail against the exhaustion of this last week. We crawl into the suite's bedroom, and I'm too tired to stave off Tatterfell's aid. She helps me get the children into night clothes and then into the big bed on either side of me. She pulls the blanket over us as we fall asleep, almost as soon as our heads hit the pillows.

When I open my eyes, darkness has fallen completely. On either side of me, the children sleep, soft and silent, Philomel cuddling Lulu.

I lie awake, staring up at the ceiling and the starry, silvery darkness that's so different from the shadowy blackness of my Tree. I remember other nights, as a child, staring into such darkness, and close my eyes against the sudden rush of tears. Pretty though it is, this is a trap and always has been.

Slowly, so as not to wake the children, I sit up and look around. The knights aren't in the bedroom, thankfully, but neither is Birch. I was too tired to check on him when we got out of the bathroom. Anxiety grips me, and I climb out of bed completely, moving carefully around the kids' sleeping forms. My head still aches with exhaustion, but I have to make sure Birch is all right.

I ease open the bedroom door and peer out into the sitting room, wishing I could call out. Did Oriana pack him off to the servants' quarters after all? But then I exhale with relief when I see a familiar silhouette standing at the window, bathed in moonlight.

He turns, moonlight glinting in his red eyes. "Albia?"

I join him at the window. _Are you all right?_

"I'm fine," he whispers. He jerks his head down through the window. "I was just…surveying the territory."

I look down to see two of Madoc's knights standing beneath our window, unmoving but alert. I sigh. Madoc might not see the need to post guards inside the apartment while we're asleep, but we're still not going anywhere.

"There's two more outside the door, too," Birch murmurs. He pauses. "The General stopped in. After you'd all fallen asleep. He said that Prince Balekin had gone."

I let out a little sigh of relief, that Balekin has retreated for now, even though I know he'll be back. _Did he say anything about my sisters?_

"I gather that they're all fine. Locked in their rooms, from what I've heard, along with Prince Cardan and Heather. I don't know how heavily he's guarding them." He turns back to me, gaze serious. "Albia…it's time to tell me the truth. About who you are. About who Madoc is to you. About what _happened_."

I gulp. I knew we'd have to have this conversation, but it's still a miserable prospect. A part of me still hoped, stupidly, not to have to tell Birch anything else about my awful past.

"You promised," Birch says, voice hardening.

I take a deep breath. I suppose I did. Lifting my hands, I begin to sign.

_My mother was a human woman married to Madoc. She ran away back Ironside when she was pregnant with Vivienne, and married my father. Ten years later, Madoc found us. He killed my parents and kidnapped me, Jude and Vivienne. We grew up here._

My short, brutal sum-up doesn't seem to register at first. Then his jaw sags. "He did _what_?"

Frantically, I gesture for him to be quiet. _Please don't tell the kids!_ I sign frantically, hands shaking. _Please! _I beg when he hesitates.

"All right, I won't. I promise." He nods, still gaping. He looks as horrified as he did when he learned the truth about Balekin. "But they're going to find out eventually, you know."

_I know,_ I sign miserably. _But please don't tell them._

"I won't, I promise." He's still staring at me in utter horror.

My insides crawl with shame. _Now you know, _I sign bitterly._ I'm a bastard and my mother is an oath breaker. Are you disgusted by me now?_

"What?" He blinks in honest astonishment. "No! No, of course not."

_So why are you looking at me like that? _Tears sting my eyes.

"Because…How could Madoc _do_ something like that? To you? To his _wife_? Even him_._" He shakes his head slowly. "That's…that's _evil_."

I blink. _No other faerie has ever thought so, _I say slowly. _They all said it was what my mother deserved, and we were lucky Madoc was obligated to take us in._

He sneers. "Courtiers. They would." He sobers quickly. "Murdering your wife…that's one of the worst things anyone can do. No matter what she's done. And kidnapping her children, when they hadn't done anything…!" He shakes his head disbelievingly. "How can _anyone _be that selfish?"

_He did it out of duty. _Why do I feel the need to defend Madoc, even now? _So we weren't left alone, with no one to care for us._

Birch snorts inelegantly. "Oh, and murdering your parents was _caring _for you, was it? Dragging you off to another world was _caring _for you? When you were just children?" He shakes his head. "That's not caring for someone. That's certainly not duty. That's just thinking about yourself alone, and then pretending to be a martyr about it." He grimaces. "Anyway, who could blame your mother? Mortals aren't bound by our laws, so why should they respect them? And I'd run too, if I was married to that vile old redcap."

A giggle escapes me. _I really can't see Madoc marrying another man, Birch._

He laughs too. "No, I suppose not." And then we're silent a moment, standing at the window, watching the moon.

"Sorry," he says suddenly. "For laughing. I suppose this isn't funny for you."

I shrug. He sighs, looking away from me. "I'm surprised you don't hate all faeries," he says in a low voice. "I'm surprised you don't hate us and want to kill us all."

_For a long time I did, _I say honestly. _But then I left Court, and found that not all faeries were like Madoc._

"Maybe." He sighs, shoulders slumping. "Faeries can be pretty awful, though." He looks at me, red eyes gleaming in the moonlight. "You've told me your story, Albia. Now I owe you mine."

I cock my head. _What?_

"All those years ago, remember?" He smiles sadly. "When I said I would explain about me and Thistleweft when you explained about why you didn't want your pregnancy."

I blink. I _do _remember, now that I think back, but this doesn't seem quite the same thing. _But I didn't explain about that. Not really. My sisters did._

"Still. I owe you." He takes another deep, deep breath. "I wasn't born in the valley," he says in a low voice. "I wasn't born a Red Branch. I was born to a different tribe, far away from that valley. Long ago."

I'm not really surprised. This does explain a few things, like why he never seemed to have any relatives. I nod, and gesture for him to continue.

"I lived an ordinary enough life, in the place of my birth," he says. "But then an Unseelie king rose in rebellion against Eldred. He needed soldiers for his army. So I got press-ganged, along with most of my tribesmen, and magically bound to the king's will, and we were all marched off to war.

"Ironically enough," he says with a grim little smile, "it was General Madoc we were fighting. And he trounced us. That's where I remembered him from, you see: I saw him, on the battlefield, slaughtering the Unseelie king's soldiers with his own hands, sword all wet with blood. I saw him run through the king himself, there on the field. And with his death, my bond dissolved. I was able to run from the field, and so I did, leaving most of my fellow soldiers dead.

"I went back to my old village, but it was gone: with all the men away or dead, it had been plundered. Any survivors had moved on. I had nothing left, so I just picked a direction and wandered off.

"That's when I met Acorn. My wife."

I pull back with a sharp breath. His wife? Birch had a wife? I feel a pinch of absurd jealousy, but mostly just apprehension. Something tells me this story isn't going to end well.

"She was a refugee, like me." He stares out the window at the moonlit lawn, at the soldiers standing below. "We had no one, but then we had each other. We married soon after we met. She was…such a beautiful person. Laughing, adventurous, despite what had happened to her. She said we didn't need a tribe, that we could make our fortune on the road.

"And so we did, for half a century. We roamed together as traveling crafters: myself a wood singer, her a jeweler. She made the most beautiful jewelry, out of the most unpromising stuff…I was happy, and I think for a long time she was too.

"One night, we stopped at a Seelie Court, even though I didn't want to: Courts were dangerous for people like us, I said, but Acorn didn't listen. The Queen heard there was a visiting jeweler, and asked Acorn to mend her necklace, which she did.

"She did a good job—too good a job. The Queen offered her a position, but she didn't want me. They had wood singers enough, the Queen said—but I don't think she liked my attitude either."

I can't say I'm surprised. I bite back my grin and nod encouragingly.

He takes another deep breath. "Acorn took the position. Even though it meant saying goodbye. Even though it meant the end of our marriage, according to the terms of our wedding. She took the position and I was left alone again."

His voice is matter-of-fact, only a trace element of bitterness, but his hand is clenched on the windowsill. My heart squeezes. Reaching out, I lay my hand on his. He doesn't move, but he doesn't push me away either.

"I didn't have the heart for the road after that." He speaks more softly than ever. "And I wanted nothing to do with Courts. Everything I'd lost, you see, I lost due to the machinations of a Court, of royalty. I wanted none of them.

"So I made my way to the most remote place I could find. I won a position for myself as wood singer for the Red Branch. And I thought that would be my life."

I remove my hand. _Until now_, I sign bitterly.

He's quiet a moment. Then he says, "No. No, there was something before all this."

He looks at me, moonlight reflected in his eyes, casting deep shadows on his face. "Eight years ago, I…I heard news of Acorn. My wife. She was dead. Some damned nobleman had killed her, almost a century before. My informant didn't know why, but…" He gives an angry, helpless laugh. "There doesn't need to be a reason, does there?"

I stare at him, horrified. _I'm so sorry. That's terrible._

"Yes." He takes another deep breath. "The night I heard, the Red Branch was holding a revel. Thistleweft was there. She was…We were not friends, but I was so miserable at what I'd heard…So angry. I had to tell someone, so I told her. She was sympathetic. We got drunk together. Then…Well, one thing led to another…" He shrugs.

I take a moment to process this. Birch…and Thistleweft? My mind boggles. I never saw them exchange so much as a civil word, let alone…And if this was eight years ago, then…

_Birch. _My fingers shake. _Are you Dogwood's father?_

"Yes," he says after a moment. "Yes, I am."

I gape at him. I never, for a single moment, saw this coming. But it explains so much: why Birch always hung around me and Thistleweft, even though she tried repeatedly to drive him off. Why he's been so diligent with helping raise my kids. Even his talk of a "debt" makes sense. Of course he owed me a debt, a huge debt: I was raising his son.

I smack his shoulder. _Why didn't you say anything?!_

"Thistleweft didn't want me around," he says in a low voice. "It was never love between us, you see, or even obligation…Just drunkenness and a moment's sympathy. Pity sex, as the mortals say. And then Dogwood was born so sickly…Thistleweft didn't want anyone else near him, and he seemed certain to die." He looks away. "Maybe it was cowardly of me, but I couldn't go against her. Couldn't go near my dying son.

"But then you came. You came, and you saved Dogwood. I owed you my son's life. But Thistleweft still didn't want me around." He lets out a rueful sigh. "She'd taken against me. Well, you know how she was. How she could be. Those pigs at that Court where she was a slave hurt her so badly…I think she couldn't help pushing people away.

"So I decided the best thing I could do was stay close, try to help. Maybe Thistleweft would relent. But then she died. She died, and you were left alone with the children. Thistleweft named you as Dogwood's guardian. Even after death, she didn't want me near her boy."

There's no bitterness in his voice: just sorrow. Awkwardly, I sign, _I'm sorry._

"Don't be." He shakes his head. "I never once blamed you for any of it, Albia."

It's a moment before I can ask my next question. _You could have taken Dogwood after Thistleweft's death. Heartwood would have backed your claim. Why didn't you?_

"Ah." He gives that sad, rueful smile. "Yes. I could have claimed Dogwood as my own, taken him into my house. But what good could come of that? I knew nothing about raising children, not even my own son. And Dogwood had just lost his mother. Was he to lose his nurse as well? His sister? The only home he'd ever known? And go off with a man he barely knew? And him only two years old." He sighs again. "Maybe it was selfish of me. Lazy. Maybe I should have taken him off your hands. You were so young, alone with two children…But I thought it was better to leave him where he was, with the woman who loved him as his mother had." He looks at me then, his soul in his eyes. "I vowed that I would always be there, though. For all of you. That I would help you with the children, help raise them, and make sure you all stayed fed and safe and happy.

"I've tried to keep my vow, Albia. I'm sorry I failed you."

I'm silent, staring at this man, this utterly unselfish faerie. Who let his wife walk away, who let his son's mother shut him out, because that was what they wanted, and he respected their wishes. Who made no claim on his own son, because that was the best thing for everyone. Who followed us into captivity, because he wanted to protect us. Who would never, ever murder his own wife and ruin the lives of her daughters and then call it honor. For _this _is true honor: to act for the benefit of everyone, the good of others, without consulting one's own wishes.

Reaching out, I lay my hand on his on the windowsill. After a moment, it turns over and we hold holds, together in the moonlight.

Going back into the bedroom, I pause, looking at my children. A band of moonlight lies across them, making Philomel's hair glow. Dogwood tosses, murmuring in his sleep. I gaze at him, marveling: this is the son of the man I love. Birch's son, Thistleweft's, and my own. Thrice precious, thrice beloved.

I steal over silently and kiss first Dogwood and then Philomel on the forehead. Neither of them wakes. I stand over them, heart hurting with love, and I feel a new determination well up inside me. I've never been a fighter, but I will be a fighter now. I will not be Madoc's pawn, or Balekin's. I will defend myself, and defend my children, from all who would harm or exploit us. No one is going to use Birch's son or my daughter for their own ends: not Madoc, not Balekin, not Jude, not anyone. Not if I can possibly prevent it.

I get into bed, but don't go to sleep. I lie awake, thinking out a strategy. This is not going to be easy. I've never been a fighter. But now I have something worth fighting for.


	16. Chapter 16: Plots

Plots

I awake late the next morning, to the sound of Dogwood and Philomel giggling and squealing. For a moment, this is so happy, and so normal, that I think I'm back in the Tree, safe and undiscovered, and this will be an ordinary day in the forest. Then I remember, and a heaviness like stone settles on me.

Moaning silently, I get up, crawling out of the bed. The kids are nowhere to be seen, but I hear their voices coming from the next room. Still in my nightgown, I head into the sitting room, where Birch, Saxifrage and a servant are presiding over what looks like an advanced play session. The remains of breakfast sit on the table, and the rug is scattered with toys, some of which look familiar.

"Look, Mommy!" Philomel comes hurtling up, looking genuinely happy for the first time since we were kidnapped. "Look at these toys Oriana left us!" She holds up a stuffed rabbit that I remember used to belong to Jude, packed up and taken along when Madoc kidnapped us from Ironside. I had no idea Oriana kept it.

I have to swallow a lump as I look over the array of toys: it's painful seeing them, but I'm so touched by Oriana's thoughtfulness in providing them. In realizing that my children would need toys. Then I think about her preparing our prison on Madoc's orders, and feel my heart harden.

The servant, a kitchen brownie, scurries over, bowing low. "Good morning, Lady Taryn," she squeaks. "Shall I bring you breakfast?"

I regard her carefully. Part of my admittedly incomplete strategizing last night involved the servants: I'm going to use them to build a power base for myself. To do that, I both have to dominate them and get them on my side.

_Yes_, I say, Birch translating. _And where are my clothes?_ I look pointedly at Dogwood and Philomel, still in their nightshirts. _Where are my children's clothes?_

The brownie looks aside, shiftily. "My apologies, my lady, but the General ordered Tatterfell to take them away and, um, dispose of them. He'll be sending a seamstress later today, though, to make you all new clothes," she adds brightly.

Part of me—and not a small part—wants to back down. There's no point in getting angry now, is there? Our clothes are gone. But the clothes are not the point. If I want to establish myself as a power in this house, I have to do it now.

I fix the brownie with an icy glare, letting her squirm a moment before I begin to sign. _The next time Madoc gives you an order like that, _I command, Birch raising his crest as he translates, _you come to me first. I'll tell you myself whether I want any of my possessions disposed of._

"But, my lady—" The brownie breaks off as I draw myself up, trying to channel Jude. On a moment's inspiration, I summon my unicorn-gift, making my hands glow white. "I—I mean, yes, my lady, of course!" She bows repeatedly as she backs out of the room, scampering off down the corridor to the kitchen, where I sincerely hope she will repeat her story to every other servant.

Saxifrage, leaning in the corner, raises an eyebrow, while the children cheer. "Yay Mommy!" laughs Philomel. "You showed her!"

Birch just looks bemused. _That was…unusual, _he signs at last. He stares at me strangely. _It's like you were a different person, Albia._

I give him a quick grimace. _I know. _I let the power die back, the light disappearing. I hope the unicorn doesn't mind my using her gift in such a way: to intimidate rather than heal. I give her a quick mental apology, fighting guilt.

I sink down to join the children on the carpet, feeling a bit sick. Confrontation has never been my strong point: I'm trembling inside. But this is the way it has to be; I can't go back to being the helpless, powerless child I was before, the child that Madoc wants me to be. I have to assert myself or we'll never get out of this.

Still, I'm glad to start interacting with the kids, playing stuffed animals with Philomel while Dogwood frowns over a puzzle box, face crumpling with concentration.

"Here, Dogwood." Gently, Birch takes it out of his hands. "Like this."

Watching them, I wonder how on earth I could have missed the fact that they are father and son. It seems so obvious now, both in their shared looks and in the gentle way Birch interacts with Dogwood. I think of Thistleweft and bite my lip. Oh, Thistleweft. I'm so sorry that I failed you, that I didn't keep your son safe.

Perhaps luckily, my melancholy thoughts are interrupted by the arrival of breakfast. Birch and I eat the porridge, the eggs and meat, and the children set to as well, devouring from my tray. I tug gently on Philomel's messy braid. _I thought you ate earlier._

_Yeah, but we're hungry again_. She looks up, beaming, her mouth full, and I have to smile.

_Come on, let me brush your hair._ I take her back into the bedroom, where I find a brush and begin tidying her hair out.

When we emerge, we have guests: Oriana gives us a swift smile, Tatterfell gives a bow, and the hob accompanying them curtsies. Her three helpers curtsy too.

"Lady Taryn," the hob says; she's obviously been coached. "I'm here to make you and your children new clothes."

Oriana surveys me and the children like we're new servants who aren't up to scratch. "Perhaps you should start with the children, Brambleweft."

No one's asked my permission, but I nod regally and step aside, as though giving it. I motion the children forward, and they trail up reluctantly.

"My first mother was a seamstress," Dogwood informs Brambleweft as he holds out his arms to be measured.

"Oh, was she, young man?" Maybe it's just my imagination, but I think I hear a snide tone in Brambleweft's voice: just a seamstress, huh? I step forward, eyes flashing, and she quickly turns back to her work, lowering her eyes.

In a trice, the children both have new suits of clothes, and Brambleweft promises to make three more sets by tomorrow. Dogwood looks at his red jacket and black pants askance, but Philomel runs his hands over her new pink skirt wonderingly: except for yesterday's dress, she's never seen anything so fine. I feel a stab of resentment at how easily she's being seduced, even though I know it's not her fault.

"And now, Lady Taryn…" Brambleweft turns to me with more eagerness. "Let's get started on you."

I let her take my measurements, though I feel strangely self-conscious about it with Birch in the room; I can't help glancing at him when she's measuring my bust, for instance, half-hoping and half-dreading that he's watching. But he's resolutely looking away, playing with Dogwood again.

Oriana, though, catches my look. She raises an eyebrow, and, though a blush rises to my cheeks, I refuse to look away. Instead, I raise my chin, staring back at her until _she_ looks away.

"…There we go," says Brambleweft at last. "We'll run up a nice new white dress for you right now, my lady, and several more within the week. Lady Oriana was most particular that you have something fit for a Court presentation!" She beams, obviously looking forward to building a Court dress.

Oh, joy. A Court presentation dress. I can guess what _that's _for. But then something else catches my attention.

_A white dress?_ Brambleweft, digging through her sewing basket, doesn't see me sign. I clap my hands sharply, making her jerk up. _Why a white dress?_ I demand, Birch hurrying to translate. _Why not some other color?_

"Well…" Brambleweft shoots a glance at Oriana. "That was what Lady Oriana specified. You were to have white dresses."

Oriana shrugs as I turn a sharp glance on her. "Madoc was most particular," she says quietly.

Ah. Of course. White, in honor of the unicorn. I wonder why this bothers me so much: after all, Thistleweft made me the moonlight dress in honor of the unicorn, and I happily wore it to all important events. But this is not like the moonlight dress. _That _dress was a mark of my power, of my special status among the Red Branch. _These _dresses will demonstrate my powerlessness, my status as a pawn. Madoc's pawn.

I draw myself up, trying once again to channel Jude. I feel like a total fraud, but it seems to work; the hobs, Tatterfell and Oriana all step back, and the children watch, eyes huge. _You can make me white dresses, _I sign, hands jerky with rage, _but I won't wear them_. Birch translates, smirking.

"Taryn, please, be reasonable," Oriana says, forehead wrinkled with distress. "It's appropriate for you to wear white, given your status as a unicorn-blessed lady."

"Is that true?" Brambleweft asks, as if she just can't help herself. "Were you truly blessed by the unicorn?"

I nod, and Philomel comes to my side, head held high. "You bet it's true! My Mommy can heal any wound or sickness."

"And make weak babies live," adds Dogwood, coming up on my other side.

"That's right," Birch confirms.

"Really?" Brambleweft looks more interested than ever, and shares a glance with one of her seamstresses. The other hob gives me a surreptitious, hopeful smile, and I nod back.

"A-_hem_!" Oriana coughs loudly, and we all come to attention. "Taryn, you have to wear something!"

Oriana and I glare at each other, locked in stalemate. _I won't wear white_, I repeat stubbornly.

She gives an exasperated sigh. "Well, what _will _you wear, then?"

I think quickly. _Green_, I say. _I want green and brown dresses. _Green and brown, in honor of the forest where I lived free, and the Great Tree that was my shelter. _Embroidered with tree leaves_, I add on inspiration.

I brace myself for an angry outburst, but instead a slight smile tugs Oriana's lips. She knows exactly what statement I want to make here. Her eyes gleam; she's no more immune to the joy of mischief than any other faerie. She turns back to Brambleweft. "You know," she says, "my husband didn't specify how _many _white dresses you should make for Lady Taryn. Why not make two white dresses and five green-and-brown dresses?"

_Starting with green-and-brown, to wear today_, I add.

"Sounds good to me," Tatterfell chimes in, grinning. "Lady Taryn will look excellent in green and brown."

A sly smile grows on Brambleweft's face, and her seamstresses giggle. They can't resist this opportunity to put one over on a powerful courtier. "All right, then."

We all grin at each other conspiratorially—at least, we women do. The children are already back playing with the toys, and Birch just looks confused.

The hobs sew up my first forest dress right then and there. I stand over them, directing operations, Birch translating with an increasingly bemused expression. _And unicorn horns on the sleeves_, I add, in another burst of inspiration.

"Unicorn horns?" Brambleweft blinks.

I pull over a sheet of paper from a nearby desk and quickly draw up a spiraling horn design. _High on the sleeves, just below my shoulders, embroidered in silver-white._ I may reject Madoc's stamp of ownership, but I still need to somehow display the badge of my unicorn-blessed status.

"Good idea," says Oriana. We gleam at each other in mutual understanding. I'm starting to think she's enjoying defying Madoc even more than I am.

At last, my dress is ready. Gently refusing Tatterfell's offer to help, I step into the bedroom to put it on; at my instruction, it's not so fancy that I can't get it on myself. I lace up the brown bodice and admire the pattern of leaves embroidered, brown-on-green, on the skirt. Their loamy scent breathes out: the hobs used real leaves. I buckle on the belt, burdened with my knife and salt-pouch. The unicorn horns gleam on my green sleeves, proclaiming to all that I am the Unicorn-Blessed, that I alone have the right to wear this badge.

I sigh, stabbed by a sudden melancholia. This dress is a small victory, but it's a victory in a war that I don't want to fight. I sag, exhausted just by a morning of asserting myself in this unnatural way: how can I keep on doing this? I draw myself up, mouth tightening. I can do this because my children need me to. If this is what I have to do to protect them, then so be it.

I step out again, head held high, and everyone blinks and gapes in a most gratifying way. Philomel claps her hands and even Dogwood says, "You look good, Mommy!"

I nod, smiling at him, and accept Oriana and Tatterfell's grinning congratulations. But I can't stop watching Birch, aching to know his opinion.

He stares at me, face still but his eyes bright. "Albia," he says at last, "you look…" He breaks off. "Nice," he finishes.

I nod, trying to hide a strange sense of hurt and disappointment. Is that all he thinks? I turn away, skirts swaying around me.

One of the seamstresses, on her way out the door, hesitates. She sidles up to me. "Unicorn-Blessed," she murmurs, using my old title, "I have a sister who recently gave birth to a sickly child. She's not like to live. If you could…?"

I nod, and gesture Birch over. _Tell her to bring the child to the servants' entrance later today,_ I say. _I'll heal her._ I give the seamstress a warm smile, and she smiles back, giving me that old, old look: the obsequious, hopeful look of a faerie who desperately wants something only you can give her. I accept her expression for what it is: it may cover contempt, but it's still better than open viciousness. And, for my purposes, it will do very well indeed.

"You're generous, Unicorn-Blessed." The seamstress dares a glance at my frowning stepmother. "I mean, Lady Taryn." She curtsies her way out.

Oriana turns her frown on me. I return it with my blandest smile. I doubt that my using my gift to heal seamstress's weak children figured in hers or Madoc's plans, but too bad. I clasp my hands, radiating innocence.

But all Oriana says is, "It's good you're ready. Your father wants to speak to you today."

A low, angry growl sounds. Everyone, even the children, turns to Birch in surprise and alarm. His crest is raised, blue spots flashing, and his eyes are narrowed. His stiff fur-spikes stand up, even on his arms and his tail.

"He's _not _her father!" Birch snarls.

Oh, dear. Giving a reassuring smile to the children, who are looking nervous, I draw Birch aside, my new skirts rustling like leaves. _Birch, _I sign, staring urgently into his eyes, _please don't do anything foolish. Don't confront Madoc. Promise me!_

_ How can you say that? _His hands jerk with rage as he signs, his face incredulous. _I'm supposed to just stand aside and let that monster pretend he's your father? After what he did?_

_ Yes! _I nod vigorously. _That's exactly what you have to do! Madoc's already threatened to punish you if we don't do what we're told. It's us he needs, not you. So don't confront him, don't be rude to him, don't give him any reason to hurt you. _I give him a grim smile. _I did it for ten years. If I can, you can._

He sighs. In that moment, he looks as tired as I feel. _All right. I'll be polite to Madoc._ His eyes flash. _For now_.

Not perfect, but I think that's the best I'm going to get. Patting him gratefully on the arm, I turn back to the room.

The children stare at us with huge eyes. Oriana raises an eyebrow. "Just what did Taryn tell you about Madoc, Birch?" she asks abruptly.

"She told me enough," he says, glowering at her.

She returns the look steadily. "I see," she says in a clipped tone.

"What?" Philomel looks between me and Birch. "What'd you say, Mommy? What about Madoc?"

"Never mind for now, Melly," says Birch, coming over to lay a hand on her shoulder and on Dogwood's. "Why don't we head out and explore the house?" He gives Saxifrage a sour look. "If our _hosts _will let us, of course."

"You can move around the house." This is the first time I've actually heard Saxifrage speak, cold and abrupt. "As long as I or another knight accompanies you. You're not to go outside."

"What!" cries Dogwood in dismay. "Why not?"

"The General's orders," Saxifrage says in a steely tone.

I check a sigh: being locked up in here is already like being shut in a granite coffin. Now we can't even go out for a breath of air. _Come on, _I say, going over to the children. _Let's see the house at least. Maybe we can find your aunts._

We head for the door, Saxifrage leading the way, Oriana coming behind us. I hear Tatterfell already moving around, cleaning up the children's mess.

"I'm sorry," my stepmother whispers to me. "I'll see what I can do about getting Madoc to let you outside, to the garden at least. Further than that is…probably not safe." Her eyes flicker to Philomel, trotting obliviously ahead.

I give her a grim smile. I suppose she has a point.

Once outside the apartment, the children go abruptly quiet. Dogwood slips a hand into mine and Philomel clings to my skirt. I lay my hand reassuringly on her shoulder, even as my stomach tightens. Walking around this house is a strange and wrenching experience. So familiar—and yet, so different. My new dress swishes imperiously around my feet, my children stay close, my knife and salt hang at my side, and the servants step out of my way, regarding me with a new wariness. They've heard of my experiences, and they can tell I've come back changed. I hold my head high, holding their gazes until they look away. I'm not General Madoc's helpless, scandalous mortal ward anymore, however much I may feel like it on the inside. I'm Lady Taryn now, the Unicorn-Blessed, mother of two beautiful children, and I survived seven years on my own in the wilds of Faerie, which is more than most of them can say. They can treat me with respect. In fact, it's vital that they do.

Dogwood steps even closer. "It's so big," he whispers. "Where are Aunt Vivi and Aunt Jude? How will we find them?"

Oriana looks up, ready to summon a servant to ask, but I beat her to it. I clap my hands sharply, startling a passing footman. I beckon him over, and he comes hesitantly, glancing at Oriana.

I clap my hands again, regaining his attention. _Where are my sisters and Prince Cardan?_ Birch translates for me.

"Downstairs, I believe," he says cautiously. "The General said they could roam the house as they wished, as long as they didn't go outside. My lady."

_Where is the General? _

"He's gone to tell King Eldred of his successful mission," Oriana says now. A small frown of annoyance mars her forehead; she may enjoy defying Madoc to some degree, but she's not liking my new, high-handed attitude. I make a mental note to tread more cautiously; it won't do to turn Oriana against me. "He'll be back later today."

Birch growls angrily. "'Successful mission' indeed…"

I give him a warning glance and turn back to the nervously waiting footman. _You will come and inform me the moment he comes home, _I instruct. _Also, there may be a hob with a sick baby coming to the servants' entrance later today. As soon as she arrives, I wish her to be escorted to me. Please tell the other servants._

"Y-yes, my lady," he stammers. He blinks his two-toned eyes at me: green and gold. "Are you…going to use the unicorn's gift on the baby? You're going to heal it with your touch?"

I note with pleasure his tone of excitement and curiosity. I nod. _Do you have any injuries yourself?_

He shifts a little. "Well, now that you mention it…" He holds up a hand, where a cut is slowly healing. "I cut myself on iron," he explains shamefacedly. "A healer saved it from poisoning, but it's healing very slowly. If you would…?"

I nod magnanimously and lay my hands on his. A moment's concentration, a flash of white light, and the flesh knits back together, leaving his hand whole and healthy.

"Amazing!" He studies his healed hand with delight. "How can I repay you, Lady Taryn?"

_We'll discuss that later, _I sign. I have no desire to negotiate in front of Oriana, and it will be helpful to have a servant in my debt. _I'm glad I was able to help._

He looks a bit uncomfortable at this—unspecified bargains seldom bode well in Faerie—but bows and heads off, giving me a marveling glance over his shoulder. Down the hall, I hear him beginning to whisper with another servant.

Oriana waits until we're a respectable distance away, heading for the staircase, before pulling me aside. "What do you think you're playing at, Taryn?" she demands, leaning over me, voice low. "Playing healer to the servants! What will your father say?"

"It's her gift!" Philomel pipes up, frowning, hair glowing. "She can use it as she likes. And Madoc's not her father!"

"That's right," says Birch, and Dogwood nods in agreement.

I jerk my arm back from Oriana's grip and draw myself up. I meet her gaze unflinching. _Oriana, _I say, Birch glaring as he translates, _I'm sorry if I'm interfering in your household, but this is my gift, given to me by the unicorn, and I will use it as I see fit. Neither you nor Madoc have the right to tell me what I should do with it._

Guilt and shame crowd into Oriana's eyes as she remembers why I have this gift in the first place. "You're right," she says quietly. "I apologize."

Gently, I reach out to touch her hand, and she looks back at me. I smile into her eyes. _Apology accepted, _I sign.

She gives me her own tentative smile back, and we stand still together a moment before breaking away and heading downstairs.

Birch hurries to walk beside me, glancing over his shoulder at Oriana. _What was that all about? _he signs out of her sight.

_Yeah, _agrees Dogwood, looking up at me. _What was that?_

I shake my head. _I can't really explain. It's just important that we don't anger Oriana, all right?_ I stare hard at the kids until they both nod. _Now let's go find your aunts._

We hear them before we find them—or, rather, hear Cardan. "Great Trees," his voice echoes from the lesser parlor, "who knew being a prisoner was so _dull_?"

Philomel giggles and I have to fight down a grin as we head in.

Once the door opens, however, all humor vanishes. I freeze, struck by memory. The lesser parlor. The very same room where Balekin visited us, seven years ago, and paid me his predatory attentions. I stare at the chair where he sat, and I can almost swear I see him there.

I can't do this. I can't do this. I can't do this.

A tug on my hand brings me back. "Mommy?" Philomel looks up at me worriedly.

I squeeze her hand back, make myself smile. I will my heartbeat to slow. Balekin is not here. Taking a deep breath, I step all the way into the parlor.

"Taryn!" Vivienne jumps up, hurrying over. "Are you okay?" She blinks at my attire. "You look…different."

I smile and swish my skirts. Jude, Heather and Cardan are all blinking at me too, and even the guards in the corners are staring. Whatever they were expecting when they saw me again, it wasn't this.

"That horrible redcap wanted Mommy to wear only white dresses," says Philomel confidingly. "But Mommy made the seamstress make something different." She holds out her skirt. "Look at _my _new dress!"

"Very nice, Melly," manages Heather. "You're looking good. You too, Dogwood."

He looks away, mumbling something. He stands very close to me.

"They _are_ looking good," Cardan says. He turns to the guards. "Too good to stay stuck inside. Why not let us out, while the General's away?"

"Orders," grinds out Saxifrage.

"Yes, yes, we have to stay in the house." Cardan pauses in thought. "But what is the _house_ precisely?"

"The building," says Saxifrage, looking wary.

"Well, what's the _building_?" Cardan nods at the terrace, golden and sunny outside. "Look at the terrace. A structure attached to the main building. Surely that counts!"

"Cardan—" Jude mutters, eyeing the guards.

"Oh, don't be such a stick, Jude." Cardan's already grandly throwing open the door, letting in a gust of flower-scented air. "Come on, kids, let's go out on the terrace!"

"Yes, let's!" Heather follows, and the children scamper forward like kittens.

A guard steps in, holding out an arm before Cardan's progress. Cardan draws back; then gives him a bright, dangerous smile. "Are you offering violence to a Greenbriar prince?" he asks oh so softly. The guard hesitates, visibly weakening. "Didn't think so," Cardan nods in victory. "Come, Jude, I feel like a walk."

"You are completely crazy," I hear Jude hiss to Cardan under her breath.

"Well, perhaps, but I got us outside, didn't I?"

I roll my eyes, but can't resist the surge of pleasure at the gust of warm wind, the sunlight. Oh, this feels better. I'm out of the coffin, away from the parlor, and my kids are skipping about the tiled terrace, squeaking with glee. It's good, so good, to see them run around happily—even as the guards take up positions around the perimeter, clearly willing to use force to stop us leaving the terrace.

I ignore them as best I can, playing games with the children, until a familiar noise wafts in: the thin, plaintive cry of a miserable, sickly faerie baby.

I turn to see the footman in the doorway, leading an anxious-looking hob woman. In her arms writhes a tiny, wizened homunculus: a faerie baby who's not long for this world, unless someone intervenes.

"What are you doing?" Saxifrage storms in, looking furious.

"Miss—Lady Taryn said this hob was coming, and I should bring her and her baby to the lady when she arrives." The footman looks both nervous and defiant.

I sweep up, Birch in my wake. _She's welcome as my patient, _I sign, Birch translating. Smiling kindly, I gesture the hob forward.

Looking more nervous than ever, she steps forward. "Please, Unicorn-Blessed," she says. "If there's anything…"

I nod and lay my hands on the child. A flash of white unicorn-light, and strength visibly flows into the baby, her skin turning a healthier color, brightness entering her eyes. I feel the magic course through the tiny body, breathing on the flame of life within. I grin at the now-familiar pause: that moment when the baby is so surprised at being healthy that they fall silent, blinking. Then—the happy coo, the arms and legs waving in joy.

The mother smiles incredulously, tears in her eyes. "Oh, Lady Healer."

At that precise moment, Madoc appears in the doorway.

He freezes at the tableau before him: his prisoners sporting outdoors on the terrace, the children paused in a game with Heather and Cardan, myself in a dress proclaiming my allegiances, my hands on a baby whose life I have just saved with my unicorn-gift.

I smile innocently into Madoc's eyes. Really, I couldn't have asked for better timing.

Madoc and I are torn from our staring match by Birch's growl. He's glaring at Madoc, crest rising, flashing red spots and blue tips. His tail lashes in rage.

I place a hand on his tense forearm. Looking into his eyes, I shake my head. He snarls silently, but slowly relaxes, tension draining away.

Madoc raises an eyebrow, but lets it pass. His eyes travel over the scene. "What," he grinds out, "is happening here?"

"We just brought the kids out for some exercise," says Cardan innocently. Philomel and Dogwood both cling close to their Aunt Vivi, staring at Madoc fearfully, but Cardan's completely relaxed. "Nothing wrong with that, surely? If you keep them cooped up inside, they're going to start breaking things at the very least."

Madoc glares a minute before turning to Saxifrage. "I told you they were to stay indoors."

"Oh, don't blame Saxifrage," says Cardan breezily. "It was entirely my fault. Now, perhaps we'd both better step aside, General. We're making that poor hob nervous, and she's got a newborn baby. Didn't Taryn do a marvelous job healing it?"

Smiling serenely, I turn back to the mother and child. _In exchange for healing your child, _Birch translates for me, _I'd like your sworn word that you will make good, well-made clothes for myself and my children, whenever we ask, for the next five years. Is that acceptable to you?_

"Y-yes," she stammers, eyes darting to Madoc. "Would you like something now?"

_Not now. Have a good day!_

"Good day," she murmurs faintly, and all but flees. Heather, watching her go, lets out a bemused sigh, shaking her head.

I smooth down my skirt before turning unhurriedly to Madoc. _What was it you wanted to say? _Birch translates, smirking.

I think Madoc is just barely refraining from snapping his own teeth off. It's marvelous. "I came to check on you and the children."

_The children are quite well, as you can see. _I gesture over at them, still watching like little hawk chicks. It hurts me that they don't run to me as their mother, but instead hang back, clinging to their aunts. _Where's Oriana?_

"Oriana?" He blinks at this unexpected volte-face. "In the kitchens, I believe. Why?"

_I want to discuss the children's education._ This is only partially to discomfit Madoc: we may have been dragged back to Court kicking and screaming, but now that we're here, we may as well take advantage of what opportunities it provides. _I wanted to ask if she knew of any good tutors._

Birch gives me a hard look as he translates for me: what are you up to? I grimace quickly: go along with it.

"Master Noggle's free these days." Jude, unnoticed, has snuck up, and now stands between me and Madoc. "The palace school is out of session at the moment, because there are no students."

_Excellent!_ I smile at my sister. _Could you talk to him for me?_

"Happy to," she says, grinning at Madoc.

He snaps out of his surprise somewhat. "Any tutors for the children," he informs me icily, "will be chosen by me. Now come, Taryn, I wish to talk to you."

"About the children, I suppose?" says Cardan.

Madoc glances at the kids. "Yes."

"Then I'll come too."

Madoc glares. "No, you won't."

"Excuse me." Cardan steps closer, lowering his voice. "But Philomel is my niece, you know."

Jude, Birch and I all blink at Cardan in surprise. He's right, I realize, marveling: she _is_ his niece. It's a measure of how thoroughly I managed to divorce Philomel from the Greenbriars in my mind that I never once, in seven years, thought of her as Cardan or Dain's niece, or Eldred's granddaughter. I barely even thought of her as Balekin's daughter. Her Greenbriar legacy was an evil secret, a curse I must protect her from—not family.

But now Madoc's smiling craftily. "Yes, but the King has appointed me your guardian for the time being, Your Highness. You're to do what I say."

"After your abject failure in keeping me secure?" Cardan raises an eyebrow. "Very trusting of my father, I must say."

"Be grateful he's not throwing you back to Balekin," Madoc growls, smile gone. "He did consider it. Now, come, Taryn, I need to speak to you." He glances at Birch. "Alone."

"Without me?" Birch's crest rises in surprise and consternation.

"Taryn can write down her answers. Come away." Madoc tries to usher me indoors.

"No!" Now Philomel and Dogwood come scurrying over, clinging to me hard. "Don't go!"

I free my hands to sign, _Don't worry. I'll be back soon._ Madoc, meanwhile, has folded his arms and is tapping his fingers impatiently, glancing meaningfully at Birch: whipping boy. _Birch will stay with you. And I'll come back, I promise._

More easily than I expected—far more easily than I like—they let themselves be dissuaded. It breaks my heart, seeing how spiritless and cowed they look, hanging back and letting me be led away. How can just a few days make such a horrible difference?

I feel a leaden pulse of rage, and break away from Madoc, shoulders rigid with hostility. He sighs, but says nothing, leading me through the house to the study.

Back in the study again. I glare at the room hatefully, memories of seven years ago crowding in, and sit down in the extra chair. Damned if I'm going to stand before Madoc's desk like an errant schoolgirl, and damned if I'm going to wait for an invitation. I sit in the chair, ramrod-straight, and look at him unblinking.

He hands me a blank notebook and a pen, and pulls his chair around to sit opposite me. I guess this is going to be a meeting of equals, or at least insofar as Madoc's capable of such a thing. I hold the notebook, fiddle with the pen, and wait.

"Oriana may have told you," he begins abruptly, "that I went to see Eldred this morning. I did not tell him about Philomel," he adds to my sharp, interrogative look. "Nor did I tell him about Balekin. But let us say I dropped some hints."

He leans forward, suddenly earnest. "Taryn, you know who your daughter really is. You know the destiny that awaits her. I want to help her achieve that destiny. Why are you fighting me?"

One good thing about writing down one's answers: it gives one time to think. _I didn't raise her to be Queen. _Why dance around the point? _She's only six. She has no experience or education for it. The Court would tear her to pieces, at the very least. She might even be killed._

"She'll be protected." Still so earnest. "I will protect her. You have my word."

_You could still protect her without making her Queen. _Sudden hope flares in my chest. _Swear to me that you'll protect Philomel without making her Queen, and I'll stop fighting you. I'll never run away again. I'll raise the children to respect and obey you as their grandfather._ I swallow, steeling myself. _You can send Birch away too, if you want. I won't argue with you. I'll obey you in everything. Just don't tell the children about Balekin, and don't put Philomel on the throne!_

"Oh, Taryn." Now he's shaking his head, half-amused, half-exasperated. "Don't you understand that this is Philomel's destiny? The Greenbriar princes are all unfit for the throne. Faerie's future is in peril in their hands. And why would the unicorn have caused Philomel's birth, if not for her to become Queen?"

I have to admit, this argument does have weight. But I shake my head, mouth a grim line. I'm not throwing my daughter into mortal peril on the basis of my stepfather's questionable insight into the unicorn's motives—and I'm definitely not doing it on the basis of some self-serving argument.

"What choice do you have, Taryn?" His voice hardens. "Such a birthright cannot be ignored. Faerie itself takes notice of children such as Philomel. If I don't put her on the throne, someone else will. And at least I have some personal interest in her safety and wellbeing." He turns soft, seductive. "And think what it could mean for _you_, Taryn. You'd be My Lady the Queen's Mother."

I stare at him. I've been Mommy for seven years, and he thinks he's going to buy me off with a hollow title like _that_?

Madoc changes tack. "All right, if personal power holds no allure for you, what about Faerie's welfare? Do you really want Balekin on the throne?" He sees my frozen expression and smiles. "No, I wouldn't either. Any one of the princes would make a terrible King. Think of how your friends in the forest would suffer, beneath their rule."

I bite my lip. I think of Birch. I think of Heartwood, of Alder and Elder, of Bettina: of all the wild fey who have been patients and neighbors and allies and friends. They _do_ deserve a better King than any of the Greenbriar brothers would make. For sure, they deserve far better than Balekin.

"You must see that the Greenbriar line has gone weak and rotten." Madoc snaps his fingers, claws glinting in the sunlight. "A dose of human blood might be just what's needed to revive it." His gaze turns distant, almost dreamy. "Eva and Justin's granddaughter," he murmurs.

Oh, joy. It's not just Madoc's ambition I'm up against here: it's his ever-present guilt as well. His never-ending quest to somehow, _somehow_, make it up to my parents for murdering them. He'll make their grandchild High Queen and tell himself that obviously it was all meant to be, all along, and that Eva and Justin, wherever they are, understand and forgive him.

I almost feel sorry for him—or I would if I wasn't aware that a lot of Madoc's plan is based on self-interest and personal ambition. _What about Dain and Cardan?_ I demand, pen scratching.

"Cardan can live." His answer comes too promptly; he's thought this through. "We'll need a living Greenbriar to crown Philomel, after all. He can live, if he promises to support her reign and not plot against her. As for Dain…" Madoc spreads his hands, the gesture saying, more clearly than any words could: what do you _think _happens to inconvenient extra royals?

And this is the world he wants to thrust my daughter into. _What about a regent? _I write.

This is, of course, the main point. Who is going to be regent for Philomel in her minority, according to Madoc's grand plan? It's sure not going to be me, or even Cardan.

"Me, of course," Madoc says calmly.

I feel my lips curling back from my teeth. _How convenient! _My pen almost snaps with rage. _You put your granddaughter on the throne and get to rule Faerie for the next twelve years!_

"You'd share in that power too, you know," he says, not turning a hair. "All our family would."

_I don't want power! I want to be free. I want the children to be safe!_

"Taryn." His voice gentles again. "You can't be blind to this. _This _is the way to ensure Philomel's safety. In this game, it's either reign or die—and you and Philomel have no choice but to play this game. Do you think Balekin is doing nothing right now? Do you think he's not looking for a way to claim you and Philomel? To claim her as his child, without spilling the truth? If we do this right, we get it all: Philomel as Queen, Balekin dead and all of Faerie at our feet."

I glare at him hatefully. _It's __your__ fault Philomel is in danger. __You__ led Balekin to our hiding place. __You__ forced us out. And now you want me to just go along with your nasty little power-grab!_

"If it hadn't been me, it would have been someone else," he says without a trace of regret or shame. "Someone who does _not _care for Philomel's safety, or yours, or Dogwood's. Now, Taryn: this would be much easier with your cooperation. However, I do not _need _it. If you will not cooperate, you will simply have to stay locked up until the time is right. What do you say?" When I don't move, he just nods, as though he was expecting this. "Very well."

His hand darts out, and I flinch, but he merely yanks out a couple of my hairs. They curl in his fingers. "I'm putting a spell on you," he says calmly. "So you won't be able to leave the house without me." He gives a sigh at my expression. "It's for your protection, Taryn. Balekin won't be able to snatch you with this spell. If I could cast this spell on your faerie children too, I would." He stands up. "Speaking of which, you'd better get back to Dogwood and Philomel now. I expect they're missing you."

Slowly, I stand. For an absurd moment, I wobble on the verge of a curtsy as old habits reassert themselves. But no. I will not curtsy to this man, now or ever. After all, if he's going to make me My Lady the Queen's Mother, he can get used to a lack of deference.

I smile grimly and tear the page out of the notebook. Balling it up, I throw it into the fire. No need to leave incriminating evidence lying around.

"Good thinking," says Madoc approvingly. "Don't tell anyone about our conversation, Taryn, not even your sisters." His tone turns cold. "If you do, I'll beat the goblin bloody while you watch. See you at dinner."

I throw him one last furious look over my shoulder before I saunter slowly out, leaving the door open behind me. His growl of frustration is some consolation, but not nearly enough.


	17. Chapter 17: Visitors

Visitors

That evening I attend dinner with Madoc and the family. I have to; I'm not going to risk Birch getting punished. But I leave the children with Birch in our rooms when I go down, and when I sit in my place at Madoc's left, I don't eat a bite.

Sitting ramrod straight, I stare unblinking at Madoc while the silence spreads and grows. Across the table, Cardan raises an eyebrow, but doesn't say anything. Jude, Oriana and Heather all look uncomfortable, but Vivi seems to be fighting down a grin.

Madoc breaks first. "Taryn, won't you eat something?" He passes a board of sliced bread to me.

I don't even look at it. Nor do I look at the other dishes. Nor do I touch my wine. I keep staring at him.

"Wow," I hear Heather whisper to Vivienne. Cardan hides a smirk behind his raised glass. Jude nudges him and gives me a look. I turn my glare at her, unblinking, until she looks away. Then I return to staring at Madoc.

To his credit, he doesn't show much sign of discomfort. If I didn't know him so well, I'd say he was completely unaffected. But I see how his clawed hands twitch. I see the muscle working at his jaw. I keep staring, and I eat not a bite. After all, what's he going to do to me? Sure, he could enchant me into eating, or drag Birch in here and beat him in front of me, but how's that going to look? If he reacts at all, it will only make the situation worse.

"Taryn," Oriana says at last, imploringly, "this isn't helping."

I turn my basilisk gaze on her: oh, well spotted, Oriana. She thins her lips, but doesn't look away.

"There's no point in going hungry," she says softly.

I just shake my head. I will not eat the same table as Madoc, not anymore.

At last, after an interminable period, Madoc stands up, tossing his napkin aside. "Well, Taryn," he grinds out, "it seems you have quite the gift for passive resistance." And with that he's gone.

Almost the minute the door closes behind him, Vivienne bursts out, "Hoo-chee mama!" She slumps back, relaxing now that the awful meal is over. "Wow, Taryn!" She shakes her head, giving a helpless laugh.

Oriana looks at me in concern. "Taryn, what did he say to you this afternoon? What happened?"

I just shake my head. While I was walking down from Madoc's study, I felt his spell take effect: a momentary drag to my steps, a momentary heaviness, as the magic settled on me, binding me to the house. But I managed to get out onto the terrace, where everyone was anxiously awaiting me. They all clustered around me immediately, asking what had happened, but I just shook my head and used my silence to outlast them all, until the questions died away. I concentrated on the children, playing with them until it was time to go indoors again.

"I think we all know what he said," says Jude quietly. She stands up, stretching. "I'm going to bed."

"Me too." Cardan stands up and suddenly turns to me. "I must say, though, Taryn, you're an inspiration to watch. Marvelous, to see the General so worked up. Quite the evening's entertainment." His eyes glint.

"Cardan," Oriana says in a warning tone, and Cardan turns with an elaborate sigh.

"All right, all right, off to bed like a good boy. Good night, Taryn. Say nighty-night to the kids for me."

"Me too," says Jude quietly. "Say good night to them for me." She pauses. "And good night yourself, Taryn."

I nod, giving her a little smile, and watch as she leaves, following Cardan up to bed.

Oriana sighs, shaking her head after them. She rings the bell for the servants and ushers Heather, Vivienne and me out of the dining room. She more or less herds us upstairs, sending Heather and Vivi off to bed before accompanying me to the door of my suite. There she surprises me by kissing me on the forehead. "Taryn," she says in a tiny, warning whisper, "don't go down that road. Hurting yourself won't stop Madoc."

I give her a cold, stony look before sweeping into my suite.

"Hey, Mommy!" Philomel hurtles up. _We've got the food for you! _she signs, eyes shining.

_Good girl. _I kneel down to give her a hug. Her bones feel so small beneath my arms, so fragile. I think of Madoc tossing my little girl to the wolves at Court, and feel my heart contract. I just want to grab her and Dogwood and run far, far away.

Dogwood comes up and I give him a hug too before standing up and turning to Ruadh, the hapless footman whose hand I healed, who's just brought up a lovely meal just for me.

"How many times must I do this?" Ruadh demands in a strained whisper.

"As many times as that vile old redcap makes her eat with him," Birch says pleasantly. "If you get caught, just explain," he translates for me.

I beam at him before sitting down at the table, my children at my side, and begin eating. As Oriana said, there's no need for me to hurt myself. I smirk as I put a forkful of meat in my mouth.

The next morning isn't so relaxing.

"Tutor?" Dogwood's wail echoes through our suite. "_Tutor?_ What do we need a _tutor _for?"

"Yeah," Philomel chimes in. She folds her arms. "We're prisoners here!"

_I know, but we're here now, so we may as well take advantage of our opportunities._ I gather my sulking children to me, turning away from the breakfast dishes. _It'll be all right. Master Noggle is a very good teacher._

_ Is he? _Birch signs abruptly. His mouth is a thin line.

I realize with a pang of guilt that I never asked his opinion about hiring a tutor, even though Dogwood is his son. I guess I'm not used to thinking of Dogwood or Birch that way; in my mind, Dogwood is still my sole responsibility, and I have the right to make all such decisions for him. _Yes, very good,_ I assure Birch. _And kind. You can meet him yourself, and decide._

"When's he coming?" Dogwood asks sulkily.

_I'm not sure. Oriana is making the arrangements._

"Because we still can't leave the house," Birch says aloud, or, rather, snarls. He casts a dark look at Saxifrage, standing unmoving in the corner.

I nod. _But he might make a good ally, Birch._

He raises his crest inquiringly, but waits to ask until the kids are busy playing with their new toys again. _What do we need allies for, exactly? _He stands close to sign, our hands hidden by our bodies. _What did Madoc say to you yesterday? What does he want?_

I can't look at him. _I'm sorry, Birch. I can't tell you. He said he'd hurt you if I did._

_ I don't care if he does! _Birch signs furiously. _Dogwood's my son. I have the right to know._

I shake my head. _It's not Dogwood he's concerned with, Birch._ I jerk my head ever so slightly toward Philomel.

He sucks in a breath, red eyes widening, crest rising. He casts a glance at the oblivious Philomel—at least, I hope she's oblivious. "Philomel…? He's going to…?"

I lay my finger on my lips, widening my eyes desperately. _Don't say it! Don't let on that you know!_

_ He can't be serious! _Birch's hands are shaking, making his signing nearly incomprehensible. _Philomel as Queen? She's only six!_

_ That's what I told him! He doesn't care, Birch. All he cares about is gaining power. And he…he thinks he owes this to her and to me. That it's Philomel's destiny and we'll be the most powerful family in Faerie._

Birch straightens his shoulders. _That's it, _he signs determinedly. _We have got to get out of here._

_ We can't,_ I sign helplessly. _Not yet. _Behind me, Dogwood raises his voice in a squeal, and another, wholly alien thought occurs to me.

_Birch, _I sign hesitantly, _should I tell Dogwood the truth?_

He sucks in a breath, blinking, and I realize that I'm not the only one in the habit of discounting Birch as Dogwood's father. Birch himself looks stunned, as though this idea honestly never occurred to him. _I…I don't know, _he manages. _Give me time to think about it._

I nod, and, reaching over, squeeze his arm gently. _Just tell me if you want me to. Or if you want to do it yourself._

_ I will_, he nods, and then there's a knock on the door.

It's Ruadh the footman again, looking more harassed and beleaguered than ever. "Excuse me, Lady Taryn," he says. "But someone is here to see you."

I brighten a little. _Master Noggle? _Birch translates for me.

"Ah, no, lady." Poor Ruadh shifts from foot to foot. "He forbade me to tell you who he was."

My jaw clenches. _Tell Prince Balekin I'm not allowed to see visitors right now._ Birch translates, letting out a growl as he says Balekin's name.

"Balekin?" Philomel looks up from animating Lulu in a magical dance. "That prince guy? What's he doing here?"

"My lady, _please_." Ruadh's looking desperate now. "He said he wasn't leaving until he saw you. He also said he'd have me punished if I didn't bring you back!"

"So ask the General to protect you." Birch snarls, advancing, crest raised and tail lashing. "She's not going to that _prince_. Not now, not ever. You can tell him that."

"Why not?" Dogwood asks, sounding more curious than frightened.

"Never mind why not," Birch growls. "She's not going to see him, and neither are you. Have the General throw him out."

Ruadh looks shocked. "I couldn't possibly do that!"

"Why not?" Birch rolls his eyes. "That redcap already acts like he rules the world. Let him use all that power of his to good purpose for once in his life."

Philomel looks between Ruadh, Birch and me. "Why's this Balekin prince so bad?" she asks curiously.

_He just is_, I tell her.

At this point, we're all interrupted by a caroling cry, echoing up the stairway and down the corridor.

"Ah, Balekin! My big brother!"

Philomel brightens. "It's Uncle Cardan!" And before I can stop her, she's zipping out the door, followed closely by Dogwood. Birch and I run after them, Saxifrage and the hapless Ruadh just behind.

Cardan it is, standing at the foot of the stairway to the entryway, lounging ostentatiously against the banister while his older brother paces back and forth below like some enraged panther. I finally catch up to the children and pull them back, motioning us all into the shadows. They shrink back, suddenly cowed and obedient at the sight of Balekin. Birch's crest rises and his tail lashes, but he steps back too.

Saxifrage's hand seeks her sword as she comes into alert. I guess the household guard is aware that Balekin is now the enemy.

"It wasn't you I came to see," Balekin snarls. We can easily see him from where we're hiding, though I don't think he can see us. He looks utterly enraged, eyes sparking, every movement abrupt, brutal with the prospect of violence. The sight makes my stomach clench, my head spin with fear. "Get out of my way, little brother, before I make you!"

"But why are you here?" Cardan asks, with a convincingly innocent, wide-eyed look. "Who _are_ you here to see? If it's the General, I'm afraid he's busy right now, so you'll have to come back later."

"Not him," says Balekin curtly. "Move!" He tries to push past Cardan up the stairs, and I shrink back, clutching the children, heart thudding. Saxifrage and Birch both step forward a little, entering fighting stance.

"But Balekin," Cardan shouts, voice echoing through the hall, "I can't possibly let you in until you at least tell me who you want to see! Maybe I can help you find them. Anyway, shouldn't you be home right now, resting from the journey?"

"I don't need rest. I'm no weakling," Balekin sneers. "Now, out of my way! I want to see Taryn—" He shuts his mouth, flushing as he realizes his mistake.

"Oh, _Taryn_!" Cardan yells louder than ever. "Well, you should have said so! I could have set you straight right away. I'm afraid Lady Taryn's not receiving visitors at the moment. She's completely exhausted, and Madoc's confined her and the children to the house. Put a spell on Taryn, even. So you'll have to head back home."

"A _spell_?" Balekin's enraged shout rings off the ceiling.

"What's going on?" Oriana comes in at a side entrance, and starts back as she sees Balekin. "Your Highness…?"

Behind her, I see my sisters and Heather crowding in. As Balekin's head whips around, Cardan makes pleading gestures from behind his back, clutching his hands and grimacing.

Oriana immediately swings into action. "Your Highness!" she coos, giving Balekin that bright Oriana-smile. "You should have told us you were coming. I'm afraid the General has forbidden Taryn any visitors at the moment, but I can host you for the moment—"

"I want to see Lady Taryn," Balekin cuts her off. "And her daughter." At my side, Philomel presses closer, clutching Lulu and trembling. "Go fetch them to me immediately, or I will tell everyone that you turned a Greenbriar prince from your home and that you're keeping your own daughter and grandchildren prisoner."

"Now, Your Highness…" Oriana slinks closer, a pleasantly smiling snake. Behind her, Jude tenses, and I think Vivi prepares a spell. Heather looks grim.

Oriana draws nigh to her victim. "There's no need for such unpleasantness, Your Highness," she says softly. "You've already made a dreadful scene, barging into General Madoc's house like this. How silly you've made yourself look." She clucks softly. "I expect the news will be all over Court in a trice."

Balekin shifts a little, uncomfortably. Jude hides a smirk, and Cardan snickers.

"And think," continues Oriana, oh-so-gently, "how much _more_ terrible it would be if I called the guards and had you thrown out like a common criminal. You can tell everyone of our rudeness, of course—maybe even get a more substantial revenge—but you won't avoid looking an utter fool. The eldest Greenbriar prince, thrown out on his ear like a beggar. At a time like this." She shakes her head sorrowfully. "Think how Dain would describe that to your father. Think how they'd laugh."

Balekin flushes angrily, but doesn't reply.

"But there is another option," Oriana continues in that silky tone. "You can come with me to the parlor, take tea, and pretend we exchanged polite nothings for half an hour before you leave. And never return. That would greatly minimize the spectacle you've just made of yourself. What do you say?"

Balekin glares at her. "Lady Oriana," he grinds out at last, "one day you will go too far."

"That day is not yet, Your Highness, as you know. Now, off you go." She snaps her skirts at him, as though he's a recalcitrant maidservant.

I have to fight down a malicious, gleeful giggle at the look on his face. Oh, Oriana, I love you.

Balekin glares a moment more, before turning on his heel to stalk to the lesser parlor. Oriana pauses just long enough to hiss at Cardan, Heather and my sisters, "_Upstairs, now!_" before gliding serenely after him.

Beside me, Birch lets out a low whistle. "I have to say, that Oriana's quite something, isn't she?"

"Mommy?" A small hand tugs my skirt, and I look down to Philomel's huge eyes, a wrinkle between her brows. "Why'd Balekin want to see you? And me?"

"Yeah." Dogwood's gaze is uncomfortably shrewd. "Why?"

_Perhaps he needed some healing, _I sign, avoiding his gaze. _Look, here come your aunties!_

Up the others come, in a subdued herd. "Taryn! Are you okay?" Jude comes forward, hands held out anxiously.

I nod, and point back down the corridor. The thought that Balekin is taking tea just below us is making my skin crawl, and I do not want to be here when Oriana kicks him out. I shiver a little, thinking of my poor stepmother, locked in the parlor with him. Still, she's certainly capable of outwitting him, and I doubt he'll do her any real harm. Or maybe she'll just leave him all on his own in the parlor for a half hour and pretend later she took tea with him. I smirk as I start herding the kids back to our suite.

"Good job stopping him, Your Highness," Birch says gruffly to Cardan, shaking me from my reverie.

"Oh, I've had years of practice." Cardan waves it off. "Though I have to say, people were awfully slow about coming to the rescue," he adds, glaring back at Jude. "I thought I was going to have to break a window or something!"

"Don't exaggerate, faerie-boy," Jude rolls her eyes. "We came as soon as we heard you yowling like a lost cat."

"Why did Uncle Cardan have to stop him?" Philomel asks. "Why was he here?"

We all exchange glances over her head, even Ruadh, who is still trailing our group, and Saxifrage. "Never mind why, Melly," Vivienne says gently. "He's a very bad man, and you need to stay away from him."

"No." Philomel plants her heels in the carpet, bringing us all to a halt. "I want to know. Why did he want to see us? What makes him bad? I want _answers_!"

She stares up at us, tears of frustration in her eyes, hands fisted at her sides. Dogwood glares up, too, just as frustrated, just as confused. I kneel down before them both.

_Children, listen. Balekin did something very wrong a long time ago, before you were born. I can't tell you what it was—_Only too literally.—_But you have to trust me when I say that he is a very bad person and we all need to keep away from him._

"You mean he's worse than Madoc?" Dogwood asks, wide-eyed. I hear Vivienne and Cardan both stifle laughter at this, and Jude give a sigh.

_Much worse. He's a killer and a madman. So keep away from him and let us keep you safe. Understand? _They both nod, huge-eyed, and I hug them. _I love you both. Now, let's stay in our rooms until we're sure he's gone, and then we can go outside again._

I stand, and lead the children on back to our suite. Their tiny hands tremble in mine. Behind us, I hear Vivienne murmur, "You're awfully quiet, Heather. What are you thinking?"

"Oh, nothing," Heather murmurs. "Just an idea I've got."

Later, when we're sure Balekin is gone, we head out. The afternoon is sunny, with a refreshing breeze. Birch and I take the children out on the terrace again. I sigh, fidgeting around almost as badly as Dogwood. I'm getting over the exhaustion of the journey, and now I'm starting to ache for exercise. After all, I'm used to tramping all over a forest all day, climbing trees, gathering food, and fleeing predators—not sitting around a mansion.

_We need more exercise, _I grumble to Saxifrage, with Birch in translation.

"You'll have to take it up with the General," she says indifferently. Behind us, we hear the children's voices raised in excitement as they play a game with their aunts and uncle.

_Where is he, then?_ _I haven't seen him all day._

"At Court," she says.

I scowl. At Court, huh? Politicking, I would guess, and for a very specific purpose. I want to hit something.

There's movement from within the house, and Oriana appears, with a familiar figure in tow. "Hello, Taryn. Here's Master Noggle here to see you."

Master Noggle hurries forward. "Hello again, Miss—I mean, Lady Taryn." He bows hastily. "It's good to see you again," he adds, beaming.

I smile at him. School may have been pure hell for me, but that's hardly Noggle's fault, and there's no malice in him. _I'm glad you're here. _I draw him aside, smiling and nodding at Oriana. _These are my children, Philomel and Dogwood._

"Hello, children," he says, nodding at them. They scowl back, standing away.

"We don't want a tutor!" Philomel declares.

"This isn't a question of what you want," says a new voice, and Madoc appears, sliding in like a snake. "It's a question of what's best for you." He smiles at me. "I've given your idea of tutors some thought," he says. "And I've arranged one of my own." He gestures, and Foxfire steps forward. "Master Noggle can give them a foundation in academics. Foxfire will train them in arms."

"What!" cries Philomel.

"Really?" Dogwood looks eager.

"Yes, really," says Madoc, smiling at him. "Foxfire is an excellent swordsman and teacher."

Jude steps forward. "You know, Father, I've already been training them," she says. "I'm happy to continue."

"Foxfire has more experience," Madoc decrees. "And I've made my decision. They can practice with him every afternoon, after lessons with Noggle. Does that suit you, Master Noggle?"

Noggle nods earnestly. "Oh, yes, General, of course." Not even looking at me, the children's mother.

Philomel goes stiff. Her voice rises. "We don't want a tutor!" Her hair starts to glow. "And we don't want _him_!" she spits at Foxfire. Her hair glows brighter.

_Philomel—_I start forward, when a sudden shadow falls over the terrace.

Everyone jumps back as something _huge _swoops overhead. "To your stations!" Madoc yells to the soldiers suddenly swarming out of nowhere. "Are you that out of practice? Saxifrage, take my family indoors!"

"You're not going to let me fight?" Jude yelps as she's herded back toward the door.

"Give it up, Jude! Hold on, kids!" Cardan yanks the children after us and hastily hands me their wrists to grip. Dogwood clings tight but Philomel stares up, spellbound, hair fading as she forgets her rage.

"Look, Mommy," she whispers. "It's a giant bird!"

She's right, I realize as the shadow banks and resolves itself as a gargantuan bird, bigger even than a crag eagle. It looks like an eagle itself, with a dark back and a white stomach. It also has cruelly sharp, huge talons that carve up the gardens as it lands with an enormous crash. So huge that its shadow casts the gardens into shade, it lets out such an enormous yawp that we can feel the vibrations in the terrace, and ruffles its feathers, deafeningly.

"By the unicorn…" Oriana trails forward, staring in hypnotized wonder. "It's a roc."

"A what?" Jude demands, standing tense and obviously wishing she had a weapon.

"The largest bird in Faerie," Oriana says raptly. She peers closer, craning over one of our guardian knights' shoulder. "They live far to the south, usually. They can carry off entire elephants to feed their young, they say." She frowns. "Is that…Is someone getting off of it?"

I squint, looking over Saxifrage's shoulder. Someone _is _disembarking the roc: a whole string of someones, actually, climbing off the roc's enormous back. One of the distant figures turns to the bird, gesturing. The roc lets out another thunderous cry before taking off again, with a flap of wings that sends near gale-force winds sweeping over us all.

We all watch it disappear, very slowly, into the sky. Even Madoc's too distracted to notice the newcomers—at least at first. Then his gaze snaps back down to his ruined gardens, and the line of faeries trudging up toward the terrace. "Capture them!" he orders brusquely. "And bring them to me."

His soldiers shake off their dazed amazement and stream down the staircase. I want to get to the railing and take a closer look, but Saxifrage won't put down her arm, keeping me and the children penned in the doorframe.

The soldiers are gone for what seems a very long time, but there are no sounds of violence: no shouts, no clang of blades. When they do reappear, they do so in a surprisingly peaceful manner, their swords still sheathed, even as they escort these new visitors up onto the terrace.

My jaw drops as I take them in: a veritable parade of extremely familiar-looking faeries, led by—

"Heartwood!" shouts Philomel happily, and before I can stop her, she's ducking under Saxifrage's arm and charging over to throw her arms around the goblin chieftainess.

"Oof!" Heartwood staggers back a little under the impact. "Glad to see you too, Melly." She gives my daughter a warm embrace. Then she looks up, pipe smoke entirely failing to hide the lazy amusement in her eyes. "Where's your brother?"

"I'm here!" Dogwood pipes up beside me.

"What are you doing here, Heartwood?" Birch calls out.

"We're here to rescue you!" Oh, Great Trees, the twins are here too. Alder and Elder snicker and poke each other. "Great Trees," Elder whispers, clearly audible. "Did you ever see such a bunch of stuffed shirts in all your life?" They fall about giggling.

I dare a glance at Madoc. His expression can best be described as…stiff. "Who," he demands, "are you?"

"I'm Heartwood, Chieftainess of the Red Branch tribe of tree goblins." Heartwood shoos Philomel away. She runs back to me, and I hold her tight.

Heartwood breathes a tendril of smoke at Madoc. "You've got a member of my tribe in custody," she says, "along with three other people under our protection. I'm here to negotiate their return."

"Denied," Madoc says immediately. "I had a perfect right to take them: permission from High King Eldred himself, as well as ties of family. These negotiations are at an end."

"Oh, come now," says Heartwood, sidling closer. Madoc doesn't flinch as she breathes smoke into his face. "That's not the only reason we're here. All these faeries—" She gestures at the huddle of frightened-looking forest fey behind her. "—Owe the Lady Healer goods and services for her healing powers. Though, I must say, I'm not entirely sure why these two came," she adds, giving the twins a dirty look. "They neglected to supply me with an excuse."

"Hey, this is the most exciting thing that's happened in decades!" says Alder. He waves energetically. "Hi, Heather! Did you see us land? Did you get a picture?"

"Sorry," Heather calls back. "They took my camera."

Alder and Elder both look outraged. "Meanies!"

"That uniform doesn't suit you, girl," a hob seamstress informs one of the soldiers, giving her outfit a critical glare.

"Where's Albia's laundry?" It's the frog maiden, hopping about anxiously. "I promised her I'd do her laundry."

"And where the nearest body of water?" Bettina the nixie calls out. She scratches frantically. "My skin has never been this dry!"

Madoc steps back, and I can see him measuring the circus developing before his eyes. I have to bite back giggles as Heartwood smiles urbanely up at him before the developing chaos.

"Are you sure you wouldn't rather discuss this somewhere more private, General?" she says gently.

"Follow me," he says abruptly. "The rest of you, go wait down in the garden." He turns, leading Heartwood toward the door, while the other forest fey are shepherded down the stairs.

"Great Trees, that's the Grand General?" I distinctly hear one of the twins say. "He looks like he has the world's biggest stick up his—" He breaks off with a cry of pain as one of the soldiers cuffs him around the head. "Ow! You wait, elf! I'll get revenge!"

"Ah, those twins," says Heartwood, dawdling after Madoc. "Ain't nothing stops them. Say, General, aren't you going to include Albia and Birch in our negotiations?"

"They don't get a say," Madoc growls. "Now, do you want your negotiations, or don't you?"

"Oh, very well." Heartwood sails after him, but pauses beside me and Birch. "Are you all right, you two? They haven't hurt you or the kids, have they?"

_We're fine_, I sign at her. _Be careful with Madoc._

She nods grimly and waltzes after my stepfather again. They disappear into the house.

The ensuing silence is broken by Cardan, letting out an incredulous laugh. "That was something!" he chuckles. "That was quite something." He shakes his head, grinning. "You know, I think I really like that goblin Chieftainess."

"She doesn't stand a chance against Madoc," says Jude grimly.

"I wouldn't be too sure of that," he snickers. "Madoc isn't used to people who aren't afraid of him. It rather puts him off balance."

I blink at this analysis. He shrugs. "That's just my observation."

"Mommy!" Dogwood and Philomel leap up around me like puppies. "Can we go down to the garden to see everyone, please, please, please?" they clamor.

I glance at the guards, who don't look inclined to be bested twice in one day. _I don't think so._ A delightful bit of malice occurs to me, and I sign sweetly, _They can probably hear you, though. Why don't you go shout down to them, nice and loud?_

"Good idea!" They giggle and race to the railing, bawling greetings down at the goblins. They shout back up, a deafening chorus. Master Noggle, standing aside, gapes at the scene in stunned astonishment, and Cardan and Vivienne are both doubled over with laughter.

"That wasn't very nice, Taryn," Oriana murmurs, though she's fighting a smile too.

"Ain't that too bad?" says Birch laconically. He stretches, tail lashing slowly.

I look at Oriana in sudden anxiety as a thought occurs to me. _Are you all right? _I sign, Birch translating. _Did Balekin hurt you at all?_

"Oh, no." She shakes her head. "I didn't even exchange any words with him. I just left him all alone in the parlor until he left. Didn't even send in any refreshments." She smiles like a cat, and I smirk back. I should have known Oriana was more than a match for Balekin in that game.

Jude, listening in, raises an eyebrow. "Aren't you going to pay for that?"

"What, you think Prince Balekin Greenbriar wants every single faerie at Court to know that General Madoc's little wife snubbed him and that he nearly got thrown out of the General's house?" Oriana rolls her eyes. "Trust me, he won't retaliate. Not yet, anyway, and not like that."

That's not very reassuring. Still, I have to grin at Oriana, and she grins back.

Birch, Oriana and I head over to Master Noggle. We may as well finish educational negotiations while the children are busy howling over the edge. And—yes—Cardan and Heather have both gone to join them, yelling at the tops of their lungs, and even Jude is hanging over the edge, putting in the occasional call. The guards are all wincing, and I sincerely hope Madoc can hear every word.

Noggle's already collected himself; I guess he's seen it all, after centuries of teaching faerie children. Oriana and I, with Birch in translation, finish negotiations. Noggle will give the children lessons every morning; Oriana blithely promises that Madoc will pay him a generous salary.

"Of course, of course." He bows repeatedly. "We'll get started with lessons tomorrow." He turns to Oriana. "Would you show me to my rooms, Lady Oriana?"

"Of course," she says.

_Wait,_ I sign. _What rooms?_

Noggle blinks, suddenly uneasy. "It was my understanding that I would live here at the stronghold while teaching your children, Lady Taryn."

"That's right," Oriana confirms. "It'll be safer, Taryn," she adds, giving me a _don't start _look.

She's right. We can't have Noggle trekking in and out, not when Balekin is probably watching the house. Reluctantly, I nod, curtsying to Noggle's bow.

The children get hoarse throats eventually, and turn to go inside. The others run out of things to say, and wave the forest fey goodbye. Just as Birch and I are ushering the kids through the door, however, Madoc and Heartwood reemerge.

"Ah, Albia," Heartwood says, calm as ever. "Looks like we've got everything sorted for now."

_Is he throwing you out? _I ask, eyeing Madoc askance.

"He'd better not!" Philomel adds, scowling.

"No, he's not," Heartwood assures her. "He's allowing us all to stay to work off our debts to your mother. He may be sending us around the island himself, now and then," she adds mildly.

I give Madoc a very hard glare: what are you up to this time? He stares back, face unreadable.

"I think your forest friends might be very useful, Taryn," is all he says. Alarm shoots through my chest.

Birch sighs. "You're not allowing any of my tribe to leave, are you?"

"No," says Madoc flatly. "Birch, come with me; I think I need another sign language lesson."

"I was going to help with the children," Birch says, not moving.

"_Now_, goblin."

Birch gives Madoc a violent look, but lets himself be led off. Watching them go, my heart clenches. Great Trees, I hope they aren't going to come to blows.

Philomel scowls after Madoc. "I _hate _that redcap! And he's _not _my grandfather," she adds defiantly.

I glance at Heartwood to see what she makes of this remark, but she just puffs calmly on her pipe. "He told me," she says simply. She eyes me through the smoke. "The Grand General's daughter, Albia? I wouldn't have thought it of you."

I control a wince. I suppose it was too much to hope that Heartwood wouldn't find out. _Children, go ask your aunties to take you inside,_ I say, and watch as they scamper off. The moment they're all gone into the house, I turn to Heartwood. _How did you find us?_

She pulls me aside, strolling slowly along the perimeter of the terrace. We're alone now except for the guards. "I know everything that goes on in the valley, Albia," she says in a low voice. "Everything. The Grand General and a High Prince invading our valley and kidnapping your family, not to mention Birch, could hardly go unnoticed. I heard about it that very night."

I sigh. _They weren't exactly subtle, _I agree, and we share a wry, grim chuckle.

"It took us a while to get organized, though," Heartwood continues. "We couldn't face the General directly, unfortunately, and I wanted to gather together all the faeries who owed you debts. The more of us there were, the greater our weight in the negotiations, I felt. Though, really, I wasn't at all sure why the General and Prince Balekin would want _you_ so badly. I thought perhaps one of them was Philomel's father," she adds calmly, casually, like it's something anyone can remark on.

My stomach clenches, and I feel a chill at how close to the truth she's come. _Madoc is my stepfather, _I sign hurriedly. My heart thuds. Just how much _has _Madoc told her?

"So he says." Heartwood eyes me, but doesn't push the issue. "Anyway, that roc owed me a favor from long ago, so it was easy to get transport to the islands. So here we came." She shrugs. "I didn't really think he'd give you or Birch your freedom, but at least we're here with you now. We'll work something out."

_I am glad of that_, I sign truthfully.

"Indeed." She stops now, and faces me. And, hidden from the sight of the guards, she signs.

_Tell me, has the General told you yet that he's putting your Lost Heir on the throne?_


	18. Chapter 18: Whispers

Whispers

For a moment, I can't sign. Or breathe. I stand, looking into Heartwood's twinkling eyes while the breeze blows stiff around us and the cries of the wild fey drift up from the garden.

_Did Madoc tell you? _I sign at last. No point in lying.

"Oh, please." She snorts. "That stiff-necked old redcap didn't even want to tell me the truth about how he became your stepfather, but I insisted. Horrible story, by the way; I can see why you ran away. No, I've known about Melly for a while now."

I stagger back, gaping at her. The world spins around me. She _knew_?

"Come now, Albia." Heartwood rolls her eyes and signs. _You were a mortal from the High Court, under at least one curse and blessed by the unicorn, who wouldn't say anything about her past. And then you had a child with extraordinary powers, just when rumors of the Lost Heir started circulating._

"It doesn't take a genius to make the connection, Albia," she adds aloud, very dryly.

Put it that way and she does have a point. _Why didn't you say anything? Does anyone else from the valley know?_ My hands shake so much I can barely sign. Thank the Trees the children are indoors with my family and there's only the signing-illiterate guards to see.

_Of course I didn't say anything, _she signs, looking impatient. _Court business never brings anything good. Neither does royalty. I thought you probably had good reason to keep your mouth shut, so I did too. And no, I don't think anyone else knows. _She shrugs. _It's my job to think about such things, not theirs._

_ So what are you going to do?_ I ask with trepidation. Heartwood has been my friend, but, as she says, it's her job to consider the wider picture, and the greater good of her tribe. If she decides that the well-being of the Red Branch depends on turning me and Philomel over to Balekin or Eldred…

She gives a peaceful puff of her pipe, looking out over the peerless garden vista. "Your debtors will work off their debts to you," she says at last. "As for me…well, I've never actually seen the High Court before, you know. And the General has set rather good terms for our stay here."

I eye her warily. _Does he know you know?_

"Of course he does." For the first time, her gaze softens somewhat with pity. "We came to an accord, Albia. I'm sorry."

My head rings. _You're going to help Madoc put Philomel on the throne?_

She shrugs, still looking regretful but determined.

I glare at her. _It won't be Philomel ruling, _I point out. Madoc may have threatened Birch if I told anyone, but I think Heartwood is past that point. _It'll be Madoc. He'll make himself Regent during her minority._

She sighs wearily. "All the more reason to win his favor, then," she says, but she doesn't sound enthusiastic. She sounds resigned.

She looks at me through the veil of smoke. _I'm truly sorry, Albia. But I have to think about my tribe's future._

Slowly, I nod. _I understand._ And I do. Of course Philomel as High Queen would be a good thing for the Red Branch—and of course having the Regent's favor would be even better. And even if that weren't true, all of Faerie has been dreading the prospect of Eldred's death and one of his vicious and/or good-for-nothing sons taking the throne. It's Heartwood's duty to prevent that from happening, if she gets the chance.

_Madoc will bring war, as Regent_, I warn. _He's been yearning for it for decades._

_ I know, _she signs back helplessly, _but any of the Princes would, too. And with my arrangement, we'll be on the winning side._

It makes a bleak sort of sense. _What has he asked you to do?_

_ This and that, _she signs. _I'm not supposed to tell you._

I smile grimly. I suppose it's gratifying that Madoc thinks so much of my ability to sway Heartwood and play havoc with his plans. _Tell me what you can, when you can, _I plead. _And protect both children!_

"Always," she says aloud, low and fierce. She reaches out to squeeze my hands hard before letting go.

She steps away. "I'd better get back to my people," she says, her usual calm, affectless manner returning. She nods toward the doorway to the house. "Looks like Lady Oriana might have something to say to you, too."

I turn around to see Oriana standing in the doorframe. She's white-faced, mouth a thin line. I look at her expectantly, but she doesn't say anything or call me over. She just looks at me, eyes full of some nameless, desperate emotion, before turning and hurrying away into the house.

Only once I'm back inside do I realize something: Heartwood never actually asked me which Greenbriar male sired Philomel. Maybe Madoc told her, though I doubt it. More likely she figures it was either Cardan or Balekin. Or maybe she decided that it just doesn't matter. I sigh. She has a point.

I go to find the children. They're with Heather and Vivienne, in their room drawing pictures, but come rushing to me as soon as I walk in. "Mommy! What did Heartwood say? Can we go home?" Philomel looks up at me with shining eyes, clutching Lulu.

It breaks my heart to deny her, but I have to shake my head. _She's staying here. All the valley faeries are staying._

"Oh." Her little face falls. I squeeze her hard. She bites her lip, cuddling Lulu. I try to imagine her as High Queen, and I just can't.

Dogwood's head hangs. "He's never letting us go, is he?"

"Oh, I wouldn't be so sure of that, Dogwood." Heather looks up from fiddling with her camera with a smile. "Out of power, this thing," she mutters, shaking it. "Those solar panels can't replace batteries, not really…"

"What does it matter?" Vivienne demands with a flash of irritation. "Madoc will never let you take any pictures anyway. How did you even get it back, anyway?"

"It matters," Heather says obliquely. "And Heartwood got it back for me."

"What matters?" Dogwood demands. "And why would Madoc ever let us go?"

Heather shrugs. "Circumstances change, kid." She continues fussing with her camera.

_Dogwood, Philomel, where is Birch? _I sign anxiously. I didn't see him on my way up here, though I looked. _Is he still with Madoc?_

"Yeah," says Philomel. She lowers her voice. "I heard them shouting!"

I can't say I'm surprised. My heart clenches for Birch. Please, please, don't let him have provoked Madoc too much!

There's a slight noise at the door, and I turn to see Oriana standing in the doorframe. Her face is white and determined. I've never seen her look so tense.

"What is it, Oriana?" Vivienne demands impatiently. "Are you here to convey Daddy Dearest's latest imperial demand?"

Evenly, she shakes her head. "I wondered if you might come down with me, Taryn," she says quietly. "We can sew together. Like we used to."

I raise an eyebrow. Just where did this come from? I gesture at the children; I'm not leaving them again today.

She nods understanding. "Tomorrow, then? While the children are with Foxfire?"

"Oooh, are we starting sword lessons tomorrow?" Dogwood asks eagerly.

I nod, smiling at him. Philomel groans while Dogwood cheers. _Cheer up, Melly!_ I sign. _It will be good to learn proper swordplay._

"I hate swordplay," she whines. "I hate fighting."

I feel a smile tug at my lips. Oh, Madoc, if you do manage to make yourself Regent, you're going to have one hell of a time.

I turn back to Oriana just in time to see her hide a smile too. Perhaps I'm not the only one who's sick of Madoc's endless, endless violence and ambitions. We twinkle at each other, and I nod, giving her a little curtsy of acquiescence. She nods.

"Good. See you tomorrow, then." And she heads out in a swish of skirts.

Heather watches her go. "What was that all about?"

I shrug. I have no idea. But I have a feeling that it's nothing good.

_What were you and Madoc fighting about? _I ask Birch after the children have finally gone to sleep.

Madoc didn't let Birch out of his study until it was time for dinner, and then he sent Birch straight upstairs with the children. I did my silent-staring act at Madoc at the dinner table again, while everyone else made awkward conversation and poor Noggle sat rigid with discomfort and obviously wondering what he'd gotten himself into. I feel a bit sorry for him. He's well and truly stuck now.

After dinner, there was an illicit meal to be eaten, and then the children to be put to bed. It's only now, hours past sunset, that I'm able to talk to Birch.

He grins, a bit self-consciously. "Was it that obvious?"

_Philomel overheard you. What happened?_

"We had a frank exchange of views," Birch says wryly. "On a number of topics. He ended it by telling me that I could forget about ever going home again, with or without you, and that Heartwood is working for him now."

I nod. _I know. She told me._ I sigh. _I can't really blame her. She's doing what's best for the tribe._

"I know," he sighs, and signs, _She's not our enemy._

_Balekin will try again, _I agree. _And Madoc—_I break off just in time.

He raises his crest. "Madoc…what?"

"Yes," says a new voice. "Madoc what, Taryn?"

I nearly leap out of my skin. I silently cry out, shrinking back, and Birch thrusts me behind him, lunging forward, crest raised. Cardan, sitting in the open window, throws up his hands in self-defense.

"No need for that! I just wanted to talk."

"What are you doing here?" Birch peers past him at the guards. "How did you get past the guards?"

"Oh, please." Cardan hops off the windowsill to the floor. "I _am _a High Prince. I just gathered the shadows around me. It was easy enough to climb over along the outside of the building. The guards are all looking away from the house, after all. Speaking of which…"

His eyes flare, and he spreads his hands in a slow, outward motion. My ears pop, and all at once the room is much quieter. A dozen sounds I didn't even notice—night birds, insects—are suddenly blocked.

"There." Cardan withdraws his hands, looking pleased. "I've soundproofed the room. No one will be able to hear us."

Birch gives a muffled expletive. "What are you _doing_ here?" he asks again.

"I thought it was time we tested a few theories." Cardan sits in the chair, as insouciantly as though he sneaks into people's bedrooms every night (and, if he was anyone's lover besides Jude's, I'd suspect that he did—but Jude would geld him with a blunt knife if he tried that).

"What theories?" Birch demands suspiciously.

Cardan grins up at him. "Well, the one Jude and I are currently banking on is that Madoc is hatching a plan to kill my brothers and install my niece as Queen and himself as Regent. Do you think this theory has any validity?"

For a moment, all is dead silence. Then Birch breaks it.

"He wants to be _Regent_?"

"I thought so!" Cardan crows, then cocks his head. "Hold on, you knew that he wants to make Melly Queen?"

To my relief, Birch hides the fact that he got the information from me. "I am not an idiot, Prince," he scoffs. "Of course that's the first thing that selfish redcap would think of. But Regent…" He shakes his head slowly. "Is he mad?"

"Mad with ambition," Cardan shrugs. I nod in agreement.

"That war-hungry redcap as Regent…" Birch's voice trails off in horror. "It'll be a bloodbath. A decade of war at least, consuming all of Faerie."

"That's what Jude thinks too," Cardan says. "Which is why she's opposed to the whole idea. Also, she doesn't really want to see her little niece thrown to the wolves at Court." He pauses. "Nor, for that matter, do I." His eyes flick to me. "Madoc told you, though, Taryn, didn't he? Told you, and then I'm guessing he threatened punishment if you told anyone else?"

I nod. _He said he'd beat Birch bloody if I said anything, _I sign, with Birch grimly translating. _How did you figure it out?_

Cardan gives an airy gesture. "The General is a highly intelligent man," he says. "But, like many highly intelligent people, he is guilty of one outstanding stupidity: he repeatedly forgets that there are other intelligent people in the world. He thinks no one is as smart as he is. Of course, given that he's been hanging around with Balekin, I can see how he came to that conclusion—"

Birch growls, crest rising as he half-steps toward Cardan. Cardan grins.

"All right, I'll stop playing around." He straightens, far more serious. "Madoc's plan is obvious to anyone who knows Madoc." He chuckles. "The General really has no idea how transparent he is."

_What are you going to do? _I sign frantically.

"Well, I personally would have no objection to—" He glances at the closed bedroom door. "—A certain person on the throne in a few years. She'd do a much better job than either of my brothers, and certainly better than me. But Melly is far too young. If she didn't get killed, she'd get manipulated by all the different Court factions and then there'd be chaos. Or, even worse, our captor will be ruling Faerie according to his own bloodstained vision, and teaching Philomel to do the same. I don't think you want to see that happen, Taryn, and I know Jude doesn't. She's been frantic, you know, ever since she realized."

I blink at this. I would never have guessed. Jude's even better at hiding her emotions than I thought. _I didn't raise Philomel to be Queen. She'd be miserable, if she wasn't killed. _Birch growls as he translates. _It would just be Madoc on the throne really._ I pause as a new, horrible thought strikes me._ And he'll never give up power once he's got it. He'll make Philomel his puppet for life._

"Yes, I agree, that does seem like the sort of thing he'd do," Cardan says. "Which is why I think we should get word out to my father."

I cock my head in surprise.

"You mean King Eldred?" Birch says, sounding just as surprised.

"Of course King Eldred," Cardan says impatiently. "How many fathers do you think I have? Now that your fellow goblins are here and Madoc's not kicking them out just yet, we actually have a chance to get a message to the palace."

Birch folds his arms. "What kind of message?"

Cardan grins. "The truth, of course. That Madoc has the Lost Heir in custody and is making a personal bid for the throne."

_Are you crazy? _My hands shake so much I almost can't sign. _Eldred will hand the throne straight to Balekin if he knows he's Philomel's father!_

"Ah, but he won't." Cardan's eyes gleam wolfishly as he turns to me. "Because here we depart from the truth and employ your mortal gifts, Taryn."

"What do you mean?" Birch asks slowly.

"It's simple, really." Cardan smiles at him sunnily. "Taryn is going to tell Eldred that Philomel is _my _daughter."


	19. Chapter 19: Confessions

Confessions

For a moment, a stunned silence reigns. Then Birch bursts out, voice loud in the soundproofed room:

"Are you MAD?!"

"Ow!" Cardan rubs his ears, looking aggrieved. "Not so loud, Birch, please! Some of us have sensitive ears. And no, I am not mad. Or, if I am, I'm no more mad than Jude. This was all her idea."

I gape at him, too stunned to sign. _Jude _thought this up?

"Why?" Birch's voice shakes. "Why would you have Albia tell such a lie? So you can be High King?"

"Great Trees, no!" Cardan recoils in genuine horror. "I don't want to get anywhere near that damn throne! No, being the wastrel uncle of a beautiful young Queen strikes me as a fine, fulfilling life. Certainly better than being King. Or the despised brother of an extremely unpopular sovereign."

I look at him sourly. So there _is _a bit of self-interest here, huh? _So how would this go, exactly?_ I sign.

"Simple." Cardan sits upright, eyes sparkling; he's enjoying this. "We get the following message out to Eldred: that you, Taryn, slept with me seven years ago in a moment of hot-blooded impetuosity, possibly fueled by drink. Then you fled Court, for reasons that would be obvious to anyone who knows Jude Duarte. But, heart-warmingly, Jude followed you, and you sisters made up your differences, just in time for Madoc to scoop you all up and drag you back with the treacherous intention of putting little Philomel on the throne and himself in the Regent's place."

There's a moment's silence. Birch breaks it first. "No one is going to believe _that _load of squirrel shit."

"Possibly not," Cardan acknowledges. "But you see, it doesn't matter whether Eldred believes it or not. He will _pretend _to believe it. He'll _love _it. It gives him exactly the excuse he needs to cut me and my brothers out of the succession."

I give him a bitter look, epithets of childhood flashing past: _lying mortal. All mortals are liars. Little liar._ Cardan said such things himself more than once. But the moment a mortal's lies become convenient, oh, then it's all okay!

Faeries may not be liars, but they _are _enormous hypocrites.

I tear my thoughts away and make myself focus. _That's an excuse to cut out your brothers, _I point out, _but what about you? Won't he make you King?_

"Oh, come on, my father hates me," Cardan says impatiently. "And I've been a scandalous Court pariah for seven years now. Jude Duarte's toy-boy on the throne? I doubt whether anyone will even raise an eyebrow if he decides to skip over me in favor of a beautiful, innocent young granddaughter with a romantic backstory."

I yank my thoughts away from the surreal absurdity of Prince Cardan describing himself as _Jude Duarte's toy-boy_ and sign, _What about a Regent?_

"I'm sure we can convince Eldred to stay alive another couple of years, if he's got a viable successor to look forward to," Cardan shrugs breezily. "Push comes to shove, maybe you can heal him, Taryn."

I blink. I never thought of this. A germ of hope grows in me at the idea. If I can drag Eldred back from the brink, as I have so many other faeries, he'd owe me a huge debt. A debt I can use to protect my children. I wouldn't have to worry about Philomel being shoved on the throne for decades, at least. He might even be persuaded to let us go!

But I'd have to get at Eldred first, and he'd have to let me heal him. And there's still the problem of Balekin.

"What about Balekin?" Birch voices my thoughts. "Won't he protest? Won't he…tell the truth?"

"What, and risk the whole story coming out?" Cardan rolls his eyes. "Even my brother's not that stupid." He pauses. "He would have to be removed, though," he says softly. "And quickly. Still, Madoc's vowed revenge, so I think we can rely on him to handle Balekin. And Dain, too."

Birch's tail lashes. "Your own brothers?" he says, just as quietly. "Even Dain?"

Cardan's eyes turn flat, all humor gone. "Let me tell you something, Birch, about my brother Dain." His voice is as flat as his gaze. "When I was a child, he took me aside and challenged me to shoot a walnut off a mortal's head. We exchanged arrows, so, he said, no one could say my arrow had gone awry. I almost shot the man, but didn't in the end. He was helpless, under enchantment. I couldn't play such a game with his life.

"But _Dain _shot him. He shot that mortal with my arrow, and killed him with it. So then Dain ran tattle to my father about how my arrow had killed the mortal, who, as it turned out, was the beloved of Val Moren, the King's Seneschal. So then I was _really_ in trouble. Eldred didn't even listen to my side of the story. He locked my mother in the Tower and left me to Balekin's tender mercies." Cardan's mouth tightens. "You can imagine what that was like.

"So don't ask me to cry for Dain," the prince finishes softly. "My brothers are both vicious and worthless. No loss to me or Faerie."

The silence that ensues is ringing. I can't imagine what Birch is thinking: he's standing utterly still, a statue of a goblin. I myself stare at Cardan, feeling sick. I remember our childhood again: all those years when it seemed that Prince Cardan Greenbriar had it all, had everything my sisters and I didn't. Rank, magic, power, friends, social acceptance, even reverence. How Jude and I always envied him. We never imagined anything like _this_.

I force my eyes closed. My head's spinning, but I make myself think. Never mind Cardan's past. What about the future? How would my family and I benefit, if Cardan's plan works?

Philomel wouldn't be forced onto the throne right away, for a start. Maybe Eldred would name her his heir, but she'd be given time to grow up first, especially if I can persuade Eldred to let me heal him. Perhaps we could even escape the throne entirely if I give Eldred a brand-new lease on life. Even better, Madoc wouldn't become Regent—he might even get executed for attempted treason.

This thought troubles me, more than I'd like to admit. Despite everything, I don't want Madoc to die.

But I'd much rather see him dead than Philomel.

And there's another thought, deeper and more piercing: this way, Philomel never needs to learn the truth. She never has to learn that she was born of evil magic and rape. She can grow up thinking herself Cardan's daughter. And while Cardan's never going to be Faerie's greatest father, he's still heaps better than Balekin, or seeing Philomel drag around the true, awful story in its entirety.

And…If I could get a private audience with Eldred…If I could strike a bargain in exchange for healing him…Could freedom be possible? Real freedom?

I think carefully. _We can't send such a message to Eldred_, I sign. _It's much too dangerous. Balekin could intercept it. Cardan should send a message asking for a private audience. You can sneak me in, Cardan, and I'll tell him the story._ Birch translates this for me, glaring at me incredulously.

"Good idea, Taryn," says Cardan with pleasure. "Though I can't guarantee my father will listen to me, or grant me an audience."

_Tell him you have something very important to say about the Lost Heir. It will catch his attention at least._

"That might just about work." Cardan's eyes gleam. He stands up and stretches. "Well, I'm off back to bed. Unless you have more questions?"

I stare at him a moment. Then I run for paper and a pen. There's something I've been burning to ask Cardan, and it's too private even for Birch's translation. This isn't the time to ask, but I might not get another chance.

_Why did you confront Balekin about my disappearance?_ My palms sweat a little as I write. _You never even liked me. Why did you care so much?_

Cardan reads my questions, face an unreadable mask of humor. At last he looks up, eyes agleam.

"I saw Balekin go off with you, the night of the ball," he says, voice incongruously light. "I knew he meant you no good, but I did nothing to stop him. I was ashamed of my cowardice. And just because I was jealous of you doesn't mean I wanted you dead, Taryn."

Birch sucks in a breath and I gape at Cardan. _You were __jealous__?_

"Why so surprised?" Still Cardan's voice is breezy, humorous, hiding all emotion. "I'd been jealous of you and your sisters for years. You had everything I didn't, or so I thought: a family that loved you, a father who took pride in you, a mother who took an interest in you, siblings who weren't trying to kill you or break you." He smiles briefly. "It wasn't until I actually moved in that I realized it might be a bit more complicated than that."

I glare at him. Well, you don't say.

"And besides," Cardan continues, "I owed it to you. Your twin sister was the closest thing I had to a friend at the time."

I blink. _Jude hated you._

"Exactly." Unexpectedly, Cardan leans in to kiss me on the forehead. "She was precious to me even then. The only one who cared enough to hate me. I will be happy to raise her niece as my daughter, should our plan work." He straightens, suddenly all business again. "I'll get in contact with the goblins," he says. "I have faith that Heartwood can get a message to Eldred if she puts her mind to it. Just let me take back my spell—"

He snaps his fingers, and our ears pop again as the soundproofing spell disappears and the night sounds pour in again. Cardan gives a mocking bow before sauntering the window and climbing out. He's gone in seconds, swinging out along the wall.

Birch immediately crosses to the window and shuts it tight. He stares after Cardan for a moment before turning to me. _Complicated man, that prince, _he signs.

I nod, still stunned. _I had no idea._

"Well, why would you?" Birch says aloud. He sighs. His eyes harden as he starts to sign again. _Albia, are you really thinking of going along with this? _

I nod. He sucks in his breath.

_It will never work, Albia. _His hands shake slightly as he signs. _Who's going to believe Cardan is Philomel's father? And I don't think we can shut Balekin up. He'll find a way._

_Not if Madoc kills him, _I sign back.

_And can he do it in time? _Birch counters. _Before Balekin does something drastic? And lying to the High King of Faerie is dangerous, Albia. You could get executed._

My stomach tightens at that. He has a point. But still I sign, _If I can get alone with the King, I can ask for anything I want in exchange for healing him. This could be freedom, Birch!_

_Freedom?_ He draws back.

_I can demand complete protection for us and the children, _I sign. _I can ask that we be left completely alone and Philomel never be forced onto the throne!_

Birch's eyes shine at this, but his signs are cautious. _Would he agree to that? What if he just snatches Philomel away?_

_ I'll set out my terms first. I'll demand custody of both children. We really might escape, Birch!_

_ Let's not get ahead of ourselves, _he cautions. _We don't even know if Cardan will be able to get a message out. Besides…what if Eldred doesn't want to be healed? I hear he _wants _to die._

_ Then I'll say Cardan was the father. I'll tell him Cardan's story._ Jude's story, rather. I shake my head. I knew Jude was cunning, but never suspected such depths. It makes me a little uneasy: Jude might not like the idea of Madoc as Regent, but I bet she'd be perfectly happy to see her niece as Queen. What would she do to ensure that outcome? Or, rather, what _wouldn't _she do?

I push this aside. We have enough to think of. _Cardan's right, Birch: this could work. If I tell Eldred that Cardan is Philomel's father, it gives him the excuse he needs to cut all his sons out of line for the throne. He'll stay alive longer, or at least set up a proper regency. It's not perfect, Birch, but at least it will give Philomel time to grow up before being forced to be Queen._

He gives a short, helpless laugh, shaking his head. "This is all insane," he says aloud, in a low voice. "Goodnight, Albia. Let's hope this crazy plan of yours has more of a chance than I think it does."

I nod, and resist the urge to kiss him on the cheek. Opening the bedroom door softly, I climb into bed with my children.

Dogwood's soft snores fill the room, but Philomel's strangely quiet. Like she's controlling her breathing. Like she's awake. I put my hand on her shoulder, guided by the light of her softly glowing hair, but she doesn't open her eyes, lying rigid under my touch, clutching Lulu.

Slowly, I withdraw my hand. Cardan said Madoc has a habit of underestimating people. For the first time, I wonder if that fault is mine as well.

The next morning, when I effortfully peel my eyes open and slowly sit up, something falls from my hair to the bedclothes.

"What's this?" Dogwood picks up the gleaming gold acorn curiously. He shakes it. "It's hollow! There's something inside!"

"Lemme see!" Throwing Lulu aside, Philomel takes the acorn and screws off the cap, which acts as a lid. She removes a tiny piece of paper and frowns at it. "It's all gibberish."

I take it from her, and the gibberish scrawl on the paper immediately resolves into intelligible words before my eyes. The writer didn't want anyone but me to read it, and took steps to ensure no one did.

_My lady,_

_ You may hate me, but we still need to talk._

—_B._

The moment I read the words, the paper dissolves into ash in my fingers. I glare at the gray mess hatefully. Oh, so I'm "my lady" now? Great Trees, Balekin, you are unbelievable.

"Who's it from? What's it say?" Philomel cranes over my arm.

I dust away the ash. _Nothing, sweetie. Just a message from the prince. _No need to specify _which _prince. _Let's get dressed._

"What_ is_ this thing, though?" Dogwood asks, picking up the golden acorn in fascination.

I all but snatch it away from him._ Sorry, Dogwood, _I sign to his hurt, surprised face. _It's a gold-oak acorn. They only grow on Eldred's island. If you tell the acorn where to go and then throw it, it will always get there within an hour, whatever the obstacles. People hollow them out and use them to send little messages._ Thank the Trees that gold-oak acorns are impervious to major enchantments: Balekin can't use one to cast a spell on me. Just send me obnoxious little notes.

I dress the children, careful to hide my rage from them. Just who does Balekin think he is? I wonder furiously. Does he really think we're going to sit down together and have a nice, civilized conversation about the situation, and that he's going to somehow win me over to his side? Is he really that dumb?

Then I think of how he raped me practically in public, how easily Madoc manipulated him, how he tried storming into Madoc's house completely unprepared. And I realize that there is every possibility that, yes, Balekin really is that dumb. And that reckless.

Fear chills through me, because being stupid and reckless does not make Balekin less dangerous. It makes him more dangerous. Because what's to stop him putting into motion some plan of violent idiocy, that could take me and my children down?

Dogwood gets dressed without drama, though he insists on holding the golden acorn so he can examine it, but when I turn to Philomel, she's resistant.

"I don't _want _these stupid dresses!" She flings the offending dress across the room and folds her arms over her chest, glaring.

_You haven't got anything else to wear!_ I scold. _Just put it on!_

"No!" Angry tears appear in her eyes as her hair begins to glow.

"What's going on in here?" Birch opens the door and pokes his head around. "Philomel! Why aren't you dressed?"

"I don't want these clothes!" The last word is a protracted wail as she falls to the floor, screaming out sobs.

"Melly!" Dogwood cries, looking close to tears himself. "Stop it! There's nothing you can do!" This only makes her wail louder.

"What's happening?" Saxifrage looks around the door and scowls at Philomel. "Just what are you screaming about, girl?"

Birch rounds on her, crest stiff with rage. "Get. Out!"

Looking affronted, Saxifrage snaps the door shut. Philomel continues sobbing, and Dogwood's shaking now, tears spilling over his fur.

I sink to the floor, gathering Philomel into my lap. She shakes, but doesn't resist, and I draw Dogwood down as well. He cuddles in. Birch crouches nearby, not touching, but close.

"I hate this!" screams Philomel, tears flowing down her face. She shakes in my arms. "I hate all of it! I want to go home. I want to go home!"

"Me too!" Dogwood wails. "I want to go home. Nobody tells lies there," he adds miserably.

Birch and I exchange glances. "Dogwood," says Birch carefully, "what do you mean? Most of the people here are not even capable of lying."

"No." Dogwood shakes his head repeatedly. "But they _tell _lies. All the time."

Birch frowns in confusion, but I think I know what Dogwood means. I stroke his soft fur. He's right: a person doesn't have to be actually lying to tell a lie. To weave a web of half-truths and deceptions, to keep an innocent child imprisoned.

"Everyone hides things from us here." Philomel looks up, face tearstained and miserable. "Everybody, all the time. Even you, Mommy. You won't even tell me who my father is!" she suddenly flings into my face.

"Yeah!" Dogwood chimes in. "Who's Philomel's father? And what's Madoc going to do with us?"

In the corner, Balekin's golden acorn gleams from where Dogwood threw it. _I'm sorry, _I sign. _I'd tell you if I could._

"_Why _can't you?" Philomel demands passionately.

"She's under a spell, Melly," says Birch shortly. "That's really all we can say right now."

"But _why_?" I've never seen Philomel look so desperate. "Why is it a secret? Why's Mommy under a spell? Who cast the spell? Who _was_ my father?"

I look at Birch pleadingly. Gently, he reaches out and gathers Philomel and Dogwood near, holding them close.

"Children," he says, more gently than I've ever heard him, "I know it's asking a lot to trust people who are hiding things from you. Because we are hiding things from you. Big, important things. But we have to ask you to trust us when we say you're not ready to learn these things. Not yet. But you will be when you're older. I promise. And we'll tell you then, all right? Because we all love you and care for you and want what's best for you."

"Not Madoc," says Dogwood bitterly. "_He _doesn't care about us."

Birch pauses. "I think the General does, in his way," he says at last. "He wants what he thinks would be best for you. He really thinks of you as his grandchildren."

_That's true_, I add, because, despite everything, it is.

Both children are silent a minute, huddled on Birch's lap. Then Philomel speaks.

"He's not my father, though…right?"

She looks to us for reassurance. My heart wrings that she was still so worried about this. I avoid looking at Birch's expression.

"No," Birch says at last. "No, he isn't. Your father was…someone else."

Philomel looks at me, and I am suddenly, utterly certain that she is going to ask if Balekin is her father. I can see the question in her eyes. Of course, of course, I think, my heart skittering: Philomel may be young, but she's not stupid. She knows Balekin helped Madoc kidnap us; she knows he's been trying to get at us. She's seen the way Balekin looks at her.

Of course she suspects. Maybe she even, deep down, knows the truth already.

"My lady." We all jump at the sudden knock on the door. It's Tatterfell. "I brought breakfast, Lady Taryn!" she calls.

"Coming!" Birch calls back, and looks appealingly at me.

I sigh and stand, pulling the children up. _Get dressed, _I sign. _And then let's eat, at least. The food's good at least, right? _

This wins a tired giggle from Dogwood, and even Philomel gives a weak smile. "Yeah," she says. "At least the food's good." But in her lovely eyes is a deep fear that I know no amount of food is going to ease.

As we head out into the sitting room, Birch hands me the acorn. "It's enchanted," he says in a low voice. "So it will only return to the one who sent it." He pauses. "Who _did _send it?"

_Balekin, _I sign after a moment. Thankfully, the children have both charged out to gobble down breakfast, and aren't looking back at me.

Birch lets out a muted curse. "What did he want?"

I slide the acorn into my pocket. _To talk to me._ I give Birch a quick, grim smile. _He thinks we can work it all out. _

Birch gives a noise that is half-snarl, half-laugh. "Is the man an idiot?"

_Yes, _I reply. _I think he is, actually. Or at least that arrogant._

"Great Trees." Birch shakes his head, slowly and disgustedly as we follow the kids to breakfast. "The High Court gets worse all the time."

The children both cheer up over breakfast, though they raise loud groans when I tell them it's time for lessons with Master Noggle. Birch and I accompany them to the schoolroom Noggle has set up, and we sit with them as he gives them their first lesson. I don't think Dogwood or Philomel should be left alone just yet, and anyway it's better if I'm there to prevent Philomel playing any resentful little tricks on Noggle.

In any case, the lesson goes smoothly enough. Noggle seems pleased to be teaching again, and Philomel even halfway relaxes, showing interest in the subject (High Court history). We avoid Madoc by eating lunch in the schoolroom, and then I say it's time for sword lessons with Foxfire.

Dogwood, who's been nodding off, brightens at this, while Philomel groans. "Sword lessons!"

"Don't be like that, Miss Philomel," Noggle says kindly. "Exercise is good for you, and swordplay is always a useful skill. Maybe your aunt will be there. She is a great knight."

I smile at him—it warms my heart to hear Jude praised by an impartial witness—as I herd the kids to the bedroom to change clothes and then out onto the terrace, Saxifrage in tow.

Foxfire is there, trying out different blades, and, to my surprise, Jude is there too. I slow to a halt, staring at my sister as she discusses weapons and lessons with Foxfire, voice low and grave. No one would ever think she was plotting anything.

Cardan's there too. He straightens from lounging against the railing and saunters over to Jude, wind whipping through his black hair. She turns to greet him with a smile, then laughs at something he says. He reaches out to caress her shoulder, and she places her hand on his. Looking at them, I shake my head. Birch is right: Eldred's going to see through the lie, and so will everyone else. Who, seeing the sexual chemistry between Jude and Cardan, would ever believe that he slept with _me_?

But Cardan's right: it might not matter whether anyone actually believes it. It would just provide a convenient excuse to cut all the dissolute and unpopular princes out of the succession. I sigh in disgust. Like I said, faeries are hypocrites.

I shake off the thought. Behind the children's backs, I wave at Jude and Cardan. They straighten and come over, Foxfire accompanying them. "Hello, children," says Jude. "Ready for a swordplay lesson?"

"I thought he was supposed to be teaching us." Dogwood points at Foxfire.

"I am," says Foxfire. "But Jude insisted on helping."

"They're my niece and nephew, Commander," Jude says serenely. "And I need some exercise. You ready, children?"

"Yes," says Dogwood eagerly, standing straighter. Philomel scowls and kicks the pavement, making Cardan laugh.

"I know how you feel, Melly." He grins at Jude. "Must you spoil such a lovely day by teaching the kids how to whack things apart with big metal sticks, Jude? Perhaps we could simply enjoy the weather."

"Never mind him, children," Jude says loudly. "Cardan's so terrible at swordplay that he doesn't want a couple of little kids to learn and show him up. Come on, let's show him how it's done!"

"Yeah! Show him how it's done!" It's the goblin twins. They've swung themselves up onto the terrace railing and are now watching, laughing their heads off.

"Yes." And now Heartwood's shown up, too, regally ascending the stairs. She puffs smoke from her pipe. "Always good to learn new things, kids." She nods at me and Birch, and we nod back.

"Ah, Chieftainess." Cardan heads over, hands casually in his pockets. "Lovely afternoon, isn't it? Tell me, how are you enjoying your stay at Court?"

Birch and I exchange glances as Cardan's conversation with Heartwood deepens. We both know what he's doing. My heart tightens. Please let this plan work. Please let Eldred grant Cardan an audience.

There's movement behind me and Birch, and the doors open to let out Heather, Vivienne and Oriana. Heather brightens at the sight of the goblin twins, now perched on the railing and heckling Foxfire. "Excellent. I need to talk to those two." She immediately trots over. "Hi, boys!"

"Heather…!" Vivi runs after her, looking alarmed.

Birch watches her go, eyes narrowed. _What are they up to? _

I shrug, and look at Oriana. She looks grim but determined, mouth a thin line. She stands straight and stares at me so intensely that I feel like her eyes are burning holes through me.

I turn back to Birch. _Birch, would you mind moving off a little? I need to speak to Oriana._

He hesitates, but moves off to watch the children's lesson. Saxifrage, with one threatening look at me, trails after him. I guess she figures he's the bigger threat.

"Come, Taryn." Oriana tugs my hand gently, and leads me to an arbor, a bench sheltered by flowering vines in the corner of the terrace. We can still supervise the lesson, and see Heather talking earnestly to the twins while Cardan converses with Heartwood, but we can't be overheard.

Oriana settles herself beside me, and hands me a notebook and pen. I guess this is going to be an involved conversation. I sit straighter, attentive to her grave expression and serious air.

"Balekin's tried to get at you and Philomel," she begins abruptly. "Again, this morning. This time he brought a few troops. Madoc and I have managed to fend them off, but it won't work forever, Taryn."

I nod. _I know, _I write.

She looks down at her lap, where her hands fiddle nervously with her skirt. "Taryn, I…" She licks her lips and tries again. "I would like to apologize. For handing you over to Balekin when you were just a girl. For letting him at you like that. I—I truly thought it would be for the best."

I nod levelly. There's a dull flash of anger at the memory, but it's soon gone. She really did think it was the best opportunity I would ever have. She couldn't have known what he would do. Who would ever have thought he would do that?

"Taryn." Oriana's voice brings me back. In the background, Jude lectures the children on a stance, and demonstrates a swing. "Taryn, you can say it to me, you know."

I blink at her. _Say what?_

"Say what Balekin did," she says quietly. "I think you need to say it."

_I can't say anything, _I protest. _The curse— _I break off writing, realizing what I've just done.

I've referred to the curse. I wasn't able to do even that, before.

"There, you see?" Oriana smiles slightly. "You can talk about it to me. You _have _talked about it to the others. Because we already know."

She's right, I realize with a racing heart. I've freely referred to the events of that night to Birch, and my family, and the curse didn't try to stop me. Because the curse prevented me from letting anyone know. Balekin didn't say anything about not talking about it to people who already did.

I stare at the blank space on the page. I take a deep breath. And I write.

_Balekin raped me. _I show it to Oriana. It's that simple. I write, and she reads what I've written.

She looks up at me and nods. And I feel a weight lift off and fly away, into the windy blue sky.

"I know he did." She takes a deep breath, a new apprehension entering her eyes. "And now there is something I must confess."

I look at her in startled wariness. What now?

Oriana shifts, seeming to nerve herself up. "It was my fault," she whispers. "It was all my fault."

_For throwing me at him?_ I write coldly.

"That and…" She takes a deep breath and raises her hands.

Between two of her fingers, a thread of white light gleams. My eyes widen. I _know _that light. That's the light of the unicorn's magic. That's the light that flashes every time I use my gift. But here it's not flashing: it's a shining, quivering thread held between Oriana's fingers.

"Yes," Oriana says quietly. "I too was blessed by the unicorn, many years ago."

I gape at her, completely stunned. _Why?_ I ask when I can write.

"That's a long story, Taryn." She sighs, putting down her hands, and the light vanishes. "The unicorn gives different gifts to those she blesses. You were given the power to heal. I was given the power to weave fate as I wished it. To a limited extent." She gives me a quick smile. "That's what my lace is, really. My weaving fate, into the pattern that I want."

My mind reels, remembering the hours Oriana spent making lace. The curious gleam of white light as she did so…_Does Madoc know?_

"No. I never told anyone, before you." She gives another sigh, avoiding my gaze. "And I wouldn't have told you either, if I didn't owe you the truth. But I do."

She looks back up, a world of pain in her eyes. "It was me, Taryn. Right from the start. I made Balekin interested in you. I wove your fate. I wove your fate so that…so that you would find someone to love you. That was my intention, anyway."

I stare at her, too stunned to feel or think.

"You were so miserable, Taryn," she continues pleadingly. "More than miserable: you were dying before my eyes. I wanted to save you. I wanted to interest you in life again. I thought a handsome, powerful lover would do that for you. So that was what I wove." She gives a laugh that's also a sob. "I thought Balekin would be that lover. I truly did. That he would give you a life worth living, so you would turn back from the shadow. I had no idea what he would do. What my spell would do. I'm sorry, Taryn. I am truly sorry."

Of course, of course, I think through the haze. It all makes sense. Her spell _did _work. After all, if Balekin had never raped me, the unicorn would never have blessed me or taken me away, and I would never have met Thistleweft or Dogwood or Birch or the other goblins, or had Philomel. Oriana's unicorn-spell did give me a life worth living: just in the most twisted, evil way imaginable.

I stare at my stepmother, at her utter wretchedness. How is it that I don't hate her? I wonder. Even now, I cannot hate her. Instead, I just feel a limitless sorrow, and an awful urge to laugh. Faerie gifts so often bite their givers as well as their receivers.

"I'll do whatever you want me to do, Taryn." Oriana sits straight, facing her crime. "I swear it. I will kill myself in recompense for what I did, if that's what you demand. It's only what I deserve."

I look at her a long, long moment. Oriana, who, unlike Balekin, never intended to hurt me. Who, unlike Madoc, has no wish to manipulate or use me and my children. Who is truly sorry for what she did.

And I think I have other uses for Oriana's unicorn gift.

_Do you truly want to make recompense? _The words emerge sharp and spiky on the page.

"Yes." She nods, face set.

I lean forward, making sure only she can see the page. _Then use your gift, and help me destroy Balekin._


	20. Chapter 20: Stalemate

Stalemate

After dinner, Cardan manages to sidle up to me.

"Heartwood's going to get a message to the King," he says briefly, beneath his breath. "We'll see if he responds."

I bite my lip. _If._ But I nod to him. We both turn as a shadow looms over us.

"What were you two just discussing?" Madoc asks, deceptively mild.

Cardan gives him his easy, insolent, I'm-a-Greenbriar-prince smile. "Communications," he says. "Did you have something you wished to tell me, General? Or should I let you talk to Taryn, as you would clearly prefer to do?"

"Actually, it concerns you, too," Madoc says. "Starting tomorrow, you will all be allowed to walk in the gardens with the children. The fresh air and exercise will be good for you all."

I stare at him suspiciously. It's true that we can use fresh air and exercise, but I'm pretty certain that's not the main reason why he's suddenly relaxed our restrictions. What's Madoc up to now? He returns my gaze with bland regard.

"That is what you wanted, isn't it? To go out again? And the children should enjoy themselves. But you're only going out with me, of course, Taryn. I'm not removing the spell."

"What about me?" Cardan asks dulcetly. "Do I need a nanny too, on these healthful walks?"

"Yes," Madoc says crisply. "I'm not risking you falling into the wrong hands, given what you know."

"All these secrets are certainly very tiresome." Cardan manufactures a yawn. "I'll go to bed now, I think. Have you told Jude yet that you're letting us outside again?"

Madoc glances up the stairwell, where Jude has already disappeared. "Not yet. You may tell her yourself, Your Highness."

"So I will." Cardan bows me up the stairs. "After you, Taryn."

I go past Madoc up the stairs. "Good night, Taryn," he says softly, and, despite everything, I feel a sudden wrench of pity for my stepfather, of guilt for my behavior. Here Madoc has devoted years to finding me, working with a creature he despised, and all he gets for his efforts are a pair of children who fear the very shape of his shadow and a silent, furious woman who won't even eat at his table.

But it's entirely his own fault.

Birch and the children seem pleased to hear the news, anyway. "We can actually leave the house? Not just the terrace?" Dogwood asks eagerly. "Tomorrow?"

_Only with Madoc, _I warn, and his crest droops a little.

"Oh," he says gloomily.

"It's still good," Philomel says hopefully. _Maybe we can find a way to escape! _she signs, and Dogwood nods vigorously.

My heart thuds. I have to nip this in the bud, now, before my children run off straight into Balekin's hands. _Don't think that, _I say. _Madoc will be with us every minute, and he has guards all over the property. And he has me under a spell, so I can only leave the house at his side._

"Oh." They both look crushed.

_Cheer up, _Birch signs. _This way we'll probably get to meet Heartwood and the others more often. That's got to be good._

The children both brighten at this, and bedtime goes smoothly. I can tell, though, from the looks he gives me, that Birch isn't finished talking yet.

Sure enough, once the kids are asleep, he draws me aside. _What's Madoc really up to? _he signs by moonlight through the window.

_I don't know. _I rub my eyes; I'm so tired. _It's something, though. Oriana knows the truth about Balekin, _I add abruptly.

Birch's crest twitches a little. _Madoc told her?_

I shrug. I don't want to tell anyone, even Birch, about Oriana's spell, or our covenant. Oriana trusted me with her secret; I can keep my silence.

_Will she use the truth to harm us? _Birch asks.

It warms my shredded heart, a little, that he uses the word "us". _No. She loves me, and hates Balekin._

He sighs in relief, then turns away. His shoulders are hunched, his face in shadow.

I nudge him. _What's wrong? _

He sighs again. "It's selfish of me," he murmurs softly, "but I…I feel so _useless _here."

_What do you mean?_

"Back in the forest," he says softly, "I was Uncle Birch. I fed you and the children and took care of you and protected you. I was helping you survive. I was important. Here, all I do is translate. I don't know anything useful, and I can't do anything to protect you or the kids from—from all of _them._ That redcap and that evil…that evil _prince_." His tail lashes angrily. "I hate it. I hate that I can't help you or the children. I hate that I'm so helpless."

_Birch. _My hands shake with the urgency of what I'm signing. _Birch, you _are_ helping. I don't know how I'd get through this without you. _I shudder at the thought. _I'm the selfish one. Because I'm so glad you're here, Birch, even though I should wish you free._

He takes a shuddering breath and half-glances at me. I've never seen him so tentative, so uncertain. "Truly?"

I place my right hand on my heart and nod. _Truly, Birch._

He's so close. I can feel the heat of his body along mine, his breath. I should step away.

But I don't want to.

"Albia…" He half-steps toward me, raises a slow, tentative hand. He brushes my hair, touches my shoulder. In his red eyes is a look I cannot describe.

My breath shakes, and a shiver runs through me. No one has ever touched me like this: like I'm something so fragile but so precious. No one has ever looked at me like this: like I'm something both terrifying and wondrous. I should step away.

But I don't want to. I don't want to.

His clawed hand descends more firmly on my shoulder, and he tentatively puts his other hand on my waist. So slow, so careful. So afraid he'll hurt me.

I lean into his touch, and it grows firmer, arm going across my shoulders, hand caressing my hip. But he doesn't pull me into his embrace, waiting for me to make the move.

I step forward, pressing myself against his lean, strong body. How is it possible for a body to feel so perfect? We're exactly the same height: I look into his eyes, and my arms go around him of their own accord.

He lets out a soft moan, and a clawed hand tangles in my hair. The fur on his face is soft, scented like a fir tree, as our lips meet.

My first kiss. A soundless moan rises in my throat as the kiss deepens, and his arms tighten, and a heat is rising in me, a yearning I've never experienced before—

—_Rasped across the ground, head smacking back, leaves in my hair, spikes in my skin, overpowered, pressed down, Balekin pounding into me over and over—_

A silent scream rips my throat. I tear away, head spinning. I brace myself on the windowsill, clutching my pounding heart, staring blindly, shaking as the heat and the memories recede. Tears sting my eyes, tears of fear, of rage and of the bitterest regret.

"Albia…Taryn." Birch hovers, hands stretched in uncertain supplication. "I'm sorry."

I dash the tears away. _It's not your fault. _More tears come. _I'm sorry. I wanted it. But—_ I choke on more sobs, my hands shaking too much to sign.

Birch steps up beside me, close but not touching me. I lean into him, and his arms very slowly go around me. He says nothing, but holds me gently while I cry and cry, there in the silent moonlight.

The next morning, neither of us mentions our kiss. We speak only of commonplace things, and avoid each other's gazes as we get breakfast into the kids and prepare them for the day.

I watch him out of the corner of my eye, though, as he dresses Dogwood. Last night was so humiliating, so awful—and so wondrous. My very first kiss, with a man I love. I realize with a start that it might have been Birch's first kiss, too. Goblins occasionally enact tender love like that—kissing, hugging, touching—but most of the time goblin courtship is wild and rough, borderline violent, with the male chasing the female and both of them kicking and scratching and shrieking. Birch wasn't like that. He was gentle with me. He was patient and kind, and he held me when I wept, when I couldn't bear it, when the memories struck me yet again.

Birch did that. For me. And I pushed him away.

"Mommy?" I look down at Philomel's inquiring face. "Why're you looking at Uncle Birch like that?"

So much for discretion. _No reason_, I say. _Finish getting dressed, Philomel, and maybe we can go for our walk soon._

"Yes!" she rushes off to get dressed, and the kids are ready in record time.

I feel Birch looking at me as we leave the suite, but I can't meet his gaze.

Oriana's waiting for us out in the corridor. "Good morning, Taryn, Birch," she greets us pleasantly. "Hello, children." She smiles at them warmly.

I nudge them, and they mutter, "Good morning."

"Good morning, my lady," Birch says acidly. "Here to put us on our leashes for our walk?"

"No," she says evenly. "You can't go out without Madoc, and lessons come first. I was actually hoping to talk to Taryn." She turns to me. "Would you care to come to my parlor, Taryn, while your children are at lessons? We can make lace together, like we used to."

"No!" Philomel grabs hold of my arm. "Don't leave us alone!"

"It's only for an hour," Oriana says gently. "Birch will stay with you, won't you, Birch?"

"Of course," says Birch, but he glares at her with slit eyes. _What is she up to? _he signs to me.

_Making lace_, I reply, honestly enough, and turn to the children. _I need to go with Oriana, _I sign. _But I'll come back in an hour, all right? Birch will stay with you._

"What are you going to do with her?" Dogwood asks curiously.

"We're going to make lace," Oriana says. She smiles at Philomel. "Has your mother taught you how to make lace, Philomel?"

"No," she mutters, taken aback.

"Then I'll teach you later, how's that?" Somehow, Oriana's chivvied me away from my family, herding me down the corridor. "But right now I need to talk to Taryn alone. Enjoy your lessons, children!"

I wave to them over my shoulder, trying not to see their betrayed faces as I follow Oriana downstairs. I think I know what Oriana wants to do, and it's better if only I am there.

We glance at each other as we head into her parlor: shy, painful, unsteady glances. The truth gleams between us, bright and tense. We both feel it. We both know it's changed things. We just don't know how, not yet.

Oriana sits me down on the sofa and pulls her lacemaking cushion onto her lap. "I haven't made any lace in seven years," she murmurs, more to herself than to me. "Have you?"

I shake my head, and spot the blank notebook on the table before us. I snatch it up. _I prefer embroidery._

"Ah, of course." She hands me an embroidery kit in a basket. "If you'd like to make something…?"

I nod, and begin digging around for fabric, needle and threads. But it's Oriana I'm watching.

She spins her unicorn-thread. Drawing apart her hands, the shining white thread appears between her fingers. Watching, I marvel that I never noticed how she did that before, how I never saw the white light, the magic.

_Why did the unicorn bless you?_

She sighs, spinning more thread. It coils in her lap, glowing softly. "That's a long story, Taryn."

_You owe it to me._

She's silent a moment. "I suppose I do."

But she's silent. More thread she spins, until it rests in a shining pile on her lap before the cushion. Then she expertly threads some of it onto the bobbins, and begins to weave her pattern.

Right away I know this is no ordinary faerie magic. She's following her _own _pattern for a start, not one copied from a book or drawn by a human designer. She is being original, as no faerie can be under normal circumstances. Her bobbins clack, and the lace glows white as the unicorn.

"I wasn't born at the High Court." I'm almost startled when she speaks again, quiet and low. "I was born at a Seelie Court far away from here, hundreds of years ago. I lived an ordinary enough life there, a Seelie noblewoman, with my mother. But then our queen chose the wrong side in a war." Her voice is flat, almost blank, as she continues knitting her lace. "Our queen was killed, our court ransacked. My mother died. I barely escaped with my life.

"I wandered the wilderness then, homeless and penniless." She looks up to give me a wry smile. "No one wants anything to do with a disgraced and defeated aristocrat, as I'm sure Prince Cardan could tell you.

"But then…" She trails off with a sigh. "I met Lysander."

I blink, cocking my head inquiringly.

"He was my love." I've never seen such a look on Oriana's face, such shining tenderness. "Lysander. A wild fey. The most beautiful man I've ever seen. We met deep in the forests, while I was wandering lost and starved. He gave me food—not because he wanted anything from me, but because I was hungry. He made a shelter for me, and came back again and again. And we fell in love."

She sighs again, soft and quiet. "He was…I'd never met anyone like him. So gentle, so kind. He never hurt a single living thing. He was a musician, a flautist: he played such music that even the birds in the trees and the animals in the forest stopped to listen. We married and made a home together: a small place, but it was ours. I…That was the happiest I have ever been."

I wait, in the silence while the bobbins clack. I can tell already that this story doesn't have a happy ending.

"But the wilds of Faerie are dangerous." Her voice is quieter than ever. "And we were not under the protection of a court or monarch. There was nothing to protect us when a gang of Unseelie thugs came upon us.

"Lysander tried to defend me." In her voice I hear the echo of ancient tears. "I tried to defend him. But they killed him. They gang-raped me. And then they left me for dead, in the ruins of the home where I had lived with my love."

I suck in my breath. Angry I might be at Oriana, but this leaves me aghast.

She looks up with a sad smile. "They say that the unicorn manifests to women who have suffered injustice. I think it's more that she manifests to women who have _given up_. Women who have well and truly surrendered to despair. Women who see no hope.

"I saw no hope. I'd lost everything—twice. I didn't see how I could ever make a life again. A life without Lysander. I was ready to kill myself. But…she appeared before me."

I nod. I know how it is. How it must have been. A broken, despairing woman, on the verge of suicide—and the unicorn manifesting.

"She blessed me with the power to weave fate as I wished it. To a very small, limited extent." Oriana nods at her glowing unicorn-lace. "And she gave me the strength to go on, the strength to survive. You know how. I used that strength, and her gift, to get to the High Court, to win myself a place among Eldred's courtiers. If I couldn't have Lysander, I wanted to be at a Court again. Later, I married Madoc, after Eva had left him and before he…brought you girls here."

I don't ask whether she used her unicorn-gift on him. _How could you marry him?_ I ask instead. _When you were married to Lysander? When you knew what true love was like?_

She doesn't bother pretending that she truly loves Madoc. "I'd had love," she confirms. "I was never going to have that again, ever." She shrugs. "So why not Madoc? He had wealth, status, an estate I could run. We were friends; we could make it work."

_He murdered his first wife, _I write harshly, _and you still stayed with him?_

"Oh, but Taryn…" She laughs softly, sadly. "I really couldn't leave after that. Leave you girls alone with him? Especially you. I had to stay, to try to look after you." She bows her head over her work, glowing with the unicorn's power. "I'm sorry I failed you, Taryn. Truly sorry."

And I feel the last of my anger melting away. She did her best. She truly did. And she's trying to make it up. She's truly repentant.

Reaching out, I lay a hand on her arm. She pauses in her lacemaking to squeeze it back.

I look down at her pattern. She's far enough along now for me to recognize it.

A spiderweb.

I stay with Oriana an hour, both us quiet, bent over our work. After about half an hour, Jude arrives, watching us from the doorway for a long moment before sitting down in a nearby chair. She says nothing, just watching. We are silent too.

Eventually I rise, and curtsy goodbye to Oriana. Jude and I both head to the children's lessons, walking together through the corridors to the schoolroom.

Jude touches my arm gently. "What were you and Oriana doing?"

I just shake my head. I can't tell her. Not yet.

She leans in closer. "Cardan got the message out with Heartwood, but no reply yet."

I nod calmly, but my heart thumps.

We go to the schoolroom, where the children are listening, fascinated, to Noggle giving a history lecture, with great verve and animation. I feel a pinch of unworthy anger and jealousy at the sight: at my kids listening and absorbed by someone other than _me_. I push the feeling aside; it's stupid and childish. I should be glad the kids are getting a good education. Anyway, both Dogwood and Philomel turn to me with happy, welcoming smiles, and I feel better. Birch, sitting in the back of the room, nods as well. I sit down beside him, and the lesson goes on.

Jude stays with us through the children's lessons, and we all eat lunch together: me sitting next to Birch, with the children, Jude and Noggle, all together in the schoolroom. And that is what Madoc sees when he turns up in the doorframe.

Philomel, sitting beside me, stiffens at his appearance, scowling, but Madoc ignores her, addressing me. "Are you ready to go?"

I nod and stand, smoothing down my skirt. _Come on, kids, want to go outside?_

"Oh, yes!" It breaks my heart a little, to see how happy and excited they are at the prospect of a trip outside the house, jumping up and down and clapping their hands. "Let's go, let's go!"

"Calm down," smiles Jude, ushering them out the door. "It's just a little walk."

"Yes, but it's _outside_," Philomel cries passionately.

"Yeah!" cheers Dogwood. "We finally get to go outside!"

Birch folds his arms at this, and glares venomously at Madoc's turned back. I catch his eye, and we share a grim, angry look: just look what Madoc has done to our children. Birch lays a hand on Dogwood's shoulder, and I take Philomel's hand as we all follow Madoc out of the house to the garden door.

There Oriana, Cardan, Heather and Vivienne are all waiting. Oriana sways up and kisses Madoc's cheek. I stare: knowing Oriana's story makes these gestures of affection between her and Madoc utterly surreal.

"Hello, children," she says gently to Dogwood and Philomel. "I'm looking forward to showing you the gardens. Let's all go out, shall we?"

"Indeed, let's!" Cardan opens the door with a flourish and strides grandly out, only to be brought up short by a brace of guards closing in. He halts and looks over his shoulder at Madoc, eyebrow raised. "Armed guards for a garden walk, General? Isn't that rather paranoid, even for you?" Beside me, both children giggle.

"It's not paranoia if the fear is justified," says Madoc, sweeping past him. "Follow me, all of you."

"Like a military parade." Cardan draws himself up and goose-steps behind Madoc, arms severely to his sides. Beside me, both children are beside themselves with mirth, and I'm having to fight back giggles too. "Come on, kids!" the prince cries. "Let's march! Let's march!" Dogwood and Philomel both fall into line, marching behind him in fine military style along the garden path.

"Jude," Madoc calls back without turning around, "get your clown under control before I send him back inside."

"I was _trying _to entertain the children," Cardan says with a fine air of wounded innocence as Jude hastily steps forward to wrap her arm around his and haul him back in the procession. "Isn't it nice to see them laugh?"

It is, rather; everyone but Madoc is fighting down grins, even the guards, a little. Both Dogwood and Philomel continue their military march a little further, before I lay my hands on their shoulders. We proceed into the gardens.

It's a gorgeous day: sunny and warm, fluffy clouds scudding across the sky. Despite myself, I relax a little: the gardens always were beautiful. The kids don't quite dare scamper ahead of Madoc, but they make little dashes to point things out or touch a flower. My sisters chatter to their lovers. I walk beside Birch, enjoying the sunshine and the birdsong. The whole excursion seems to be going surprisingly smoothly—until I look up and see the courtiers.

We're walking along the edges of Madoc's gardens, and we have an audience. A group of gorgeously dressed courtiers, standing in the woods bordering the garden, looking over at us with bright, curious eyes. They see us looking, and an excited stir runs through them, a buzz of gossip. I can't discern their chatter clearly, only hear isolated words: "Madoc's daughter…Unicorn…Child…Greenbriar…"

A small, warm hand slips into mine. "Mommy?" Dogwood says anxiously. "Who are those people?"

_No one, sweetie. _My hands tremble a little as they trace out the lie. Because they're _not _no one: they're our audience, literally. This family garden walk is not a family garden walk: it's a chance for Madoc to display his new acquisitions. His unicorn-blessed daughter and her mysterious girl-child. I stare at Madoc's back with new understanding. This story is going to spread through Court, and that's exactly what Madoc wants. He is fanning the flames of gossip. He is throwing grist into the rumor mill. And it won't take long for those rumors to reach Eldred's ears.

Behind the courtiers, I see a familiar figure, golden hair shining, deer legs graceful. It's—oh, mercy of the Trees—it's Prince Dain. Dain, watching our group with narrowed eyes. Watching my daughter as she innocently plays with a couple of stones at the side of the path—

"Hey, kids! Smile!"

I wrench around as Heather aims her camera at my children. Madoc turns too, and the courtiers all jerk back. "Come on, kids," Heather coaxes from behind the camera. "Smile and wave!"

"You're silly!" Philomel laughs as she waves happily at the camera. Dogwood just clings closer to my side.

"What do you think you're _doing_?" Vivienne snatches the camera down.

"Yes," grinds out Madoc. "What _are _you doing?"

"Checking something out." Heather turns her camera so we can all see the screen. On it, Philomel smiles and waves, the camera capturing her every movement. "How 'bout that? Faeries show up in digital film, too!"

"Let me see!" Philomel crowds in, and even Dogwood peers over, interested. Philomel's face lights up. "Look, Mommy! It's me!"

"You're waving," Dogwood marvels. "You can see every movement!"

"It's digital video, kids." Now Heather straightens and, to my horror, aims her camera at Prince Dain and the watching courtiers. "Hey, lords and ladies," she calls, "feel like being posted on Instagram?"

They stare at her in utter amazement and horror, before scattering like deer, even Dain. I can hear their voices rising: "Was she threatening…?...Completely mad…!"

Beside me, Birch laughs aloud. "Well done, Heather!"

Vivienne, Jude and Cardan are all fighting laughter too, and even Oriana looks like she's struggling not to smile.

Madoc's face darkens. Without a word, he marches over and, snatching the camera out of Heather's hand, breaks it apart in a series of loud snaps.

Heather's laughing smirk disappears as her jaw drops. "Hey! That camera cost me three hundred dollars!"

"Then it was money wasted, wasn't it?" Madoc shoves the pieces into Heather's hands and nods to one of the guards. "Take Miss Heather back to the house and ensure that she stays there."

"Jesus Christ…" Heather mutters as guard chivvies her back.

"I'm going too," Vivi says, glaring at Madoc defiantly as she accompanies Heather and the guard back up the path.

Madoc waves a dismissive hand. He doesn't care if Vivienne goes back. He only really needs two people for today's sideshow: me and Philomel.

Philomel scowls after Heather and Vivienne a moment before turning to Madoc. "Why did you break Aunt Heather's camera? That was so mean!"

"She used it without my permission," Madoc says coolly.

"Oh, the horror," Birch mutters. "She used her own equipment without the Grand General's _permission_. She acted on an initiative that wasn't yours. And you can't have that, can you, _Madoc_?"

Dogwood and Philomel both snigger nervously. Madoc glares at Birch. "Do you wish me to strike you again, goblin?"

"Go ahead, redcap," Birch snarls. "Hit me out here in public. Show your whole damn Court the bully that you really are."

Madoc's fists clench. Sweat breaks out on my forehead.

"Enough!" Oriana steps forward. "Birch, restrain yourself. Madoc, why don't you walk with me?" She takes his arm and leads him ahead.

Birch's crest is still rattling with rage. I put a hand on his arm, and slowly he relaxes. He gives me a quick, repentant smile. _I'm sorry, _he signs. _I couldn't stop myself._

_I think it was great! _Philomel signs, eyes shining. _You should beat him up, Uncle Birch!_

_Yeah! _Dogwood chimes in.

_He'd be the one to beat me up, kids, _Birch signs wryly. _Come on, let's keep going._

He takes the children by the hands and leads them on, a careful distance from Madoc and Oriana. Jude and Cardan, who have been watching silently, come up beside me, arm in arm.

"You know," Cardan murmurs, eyes sparkling, "I'm really starting to like that Birch."

"You would," Jude mutters, rolling her eyes.

I'm about to agree, when I suddenly spot movement in the woods.

There's another observer there. Hidden—they're trying not to draw attention. But, from the glance I caught, before they pulled their concealment spell close, they look far more intent than the gossipy courtiers, and far less likely to be scared off by human cameras.

And, though I can't be entirely sure, I think I may have glimpsed Balekin's crest on their tabard.

Jude's spotted them too. She tenses, gaze going eagle-sharp. I can tell she's thinking of pursuing the spy, but her eyes slide to the guards, to Madoc, and she forces herself back.

"Come on." She unwraps her arm from Cardan's and pulls me gently forward. Cardan comes up close behind us, eyes on the woods.

"Mommy!" Philomel protests as I reach her to clamp her to my side. I grab Dogwood too, and, holding both children, wheel around to unexpectedly see Madoc facing us.

He's looking at the woods too. On his face is a faint smile of satisfaction. His eyes flick to me, and I know he knows.

The days roll by, and, bizarrely, soon settle into a routine.

Every morning, after breakfast in the guest suite, come lessons with Master Noggle, which Birch and I attend to watch the children. Oriana often comes too, and we eat lunch together in the schoolroom.

After that it's time for the daily purgatory, otherwise known as garden walks with Madoc.

After that first walk, Heather is banned, so Vivienne doesn't usually attend, but Jude, Cardan and Oriana all accompany me, Birch and the children as we trail behind Madoc, on display for our audience. It seems like every servant, guest and courtier in Eldred's Court comes just to stare at me and my children, speculation rising like nightmarish insect chatter. Far from driving them off, Madoc parades us slowly around the garden's perimeter, where they can all get a good view.

What is he trying to _do_? I wonder furiously. Fuel the rumor mill, obviously, but to what end? I can think of only two possibilities: either he's hoping the rumors soon reach Eldred's ears or hoping to goad Balekin into doing something stupid. I devoutly hope it's the first possibility that comes true.

But Eldred doesn't seem to be doing anything. Every evening after dinner I look at Cardan inquiringly, and every evening he shakes his head and grimaces. Eldred still hasn't responded to Cardan's message. What's wrong with the King? I wonder. Here he's been hankering after grandchildren for years—decades, even—and then he can't be bothered to reply to a message from his own son about the Lost Heir?

I'm not the only one confused and frustrated. I overhear Jude and Cardan arguing about it one afternoon on my way back to the schoolroom from a trip to the bathroom. "—When's he going to respond?" Jude hisses at Cardan behind a closed door. "Are you sure Heartwood got him the message?"

"Quite sure," Cardan says impatiently. "She swore she did. But she can't _make _him respond, Jude. And neither can I."

Too true. But I wish with all my heart he could. Every day that goes by without a response from Eldred is a day closer to Balekin doing something drastic. And I'm certain the crowds around the gardens are heavily leavened with the eldest prince's spies, even if Balekin himself hasn't made an appearance.

Dogwood soon hates the walks as heartily as I do, hiding behind me and Birch from the crowd's scrutiny. "Can't we go any faster?" he whispers.

"You can go back to the house with Birch if you wish, Dogwood," Madoc says, still striding ahead.

I glare at his back: he doesn't need my son, huh? Birch glares too, but turns to Dogwood. "How about it?"

But Dogwood shakes his head and clings hard to me. "I won't leave my Mommy," he says fiercely. My heart melts, and even Madoc turns to give my boy an approving look.

Meanwhile, Philomel goes in the opposite direction. She's fascinated by our audience, smiling and waving, and always trying to sneak off to greet them and make friends. For once, Madoc and I are in perfect agreement: I run to retrieve Philomel every time she tries to make an escape, and Madoc nods for the guards to close in. After the sixth attempt, Madoc draws Philomel aside and threatens her with the leashing spell if she tries to approach the Court faeries again. After that she stays by me, but watches the courtiers with disturbingly bright and fascinated eyes.

_Don't look at them, Melly, _I order, glancing at the courtiers nervously. Dain is among them again, his blond head shining in the sun as he stares like a forest predator at my daughter. _They're not our friends._

_We might become friends, though, _she argues. _If we went to talk to them._

I shake my head. _Not even then._ I spot a familiar figure striding uncaring through the courtiers, and wave. _Look! It's Heartwood!_

"Out of my way, boy," Heartwood says brusquely to a young courtier, and he hastily jumps aside. Heartwood sashays right by Prince Dain. I have to grin: I should have known Heartwood would pay no heed to Court rank or Court etiquette. She shows similar indifference to the guards as she crosses into Madoc's gardens, the goblin twins sauntering behind her. "Hello, Albia, Birch. Hi, kids. How've you been?"

"Hi, Heartwood!" Philomel waves enthusiastically, and even Dogwood smiles. "How are you?"

"We're fine." Heartwood ruffles Philomel's hair and claps Dogwood on the shoulder. "I'm glad to see you looking so healthy, at least." She nods back to where Cardan is walking with Jude on his arm. "Why don't you convey my compliments to your aunt and uncle?"

Both kids scamper back to greet Jude and Cardan, and Birch gives Heartwood a narrow-eyed look. _Just what is going on, Heartwood?_

She looks regretful. _I wish I could tell you, Birch, I really do._ A shadow falls over us, and she turns to Madoc. "Ah, General! Got time to talk?"

"Yes," says Madoc, and Heartwood falls in beside him. They walk ahead together, heads bent in close conference. My chest tightens, watching them. What are they talking about? What is Madoc making Heartwood do? Whatever it is, I hope it isn't too dangerous, or criminal. I have no illusions: if Madoc involves Heartwood in a crime, he'll let her take the fall.

"Hey, Albia." Alder—or possibly Elder—sidles up to me, unusually furtive. "Where's Heather?"

I blink. "Heather?" Birch says my thoughts aloud. "What do you want with her?"

The other twin gives a smug cackle. "We've got the goods she asked for, that's what," he says in an undertone. "You tell her that."

Then both goblins giggle and slide away, disappearing into a nearby stand of trees, as though they never were.

Mind still full of the strange encounter, I take Philomel to Oriana's parlor after the walk.

This has become another integral part of our routine. After the walk, Dogwood goes off to practice swordplay with his Aunt Jude and Foxfire, supervised by Birch, and Philomel and I head to Oriana's parlor to ply our needles…or bobbins.

If the garden walks are a daily penance, Oriana's parlor is a daily refuge. It's almost like the old days: while I'm here with Oriana, I'm safe, and so is Philomel. Philomel makes little outfits for Lulu the doll and I embroider, while Oriana works on her unicorn-glowing lacework. It's growing larger and more complex: a spider's web, a net to catch her prey.

_How will you know when it's finished? _I write down.

She shrugs. "I'll know." She holds up what she's made so far, a feline smile curving her lips. "Not long now, I think."

She grins at me sidelong, and we both look lovingly at her threads of fate: twisted and woven together, to catch Prince Balekin. To trap him.

"Hey, Oriana." The oblivious Philomel bounces up, colorful threads in her hands. "Can I braid your hair?" She reaches out to stroke it. "It's so pretty!"

Oriana smiles at her. "Of course. Just don't touch my lacework, all right?"

"Okay." Philomel stands up on the sofa to braid bright threads into Oriana's hair. I take another stich in my composition, and Oriana's bobbins clack.

"Oriana?" Philomel says suddenly. "Can I ask you something?"

"Certainly." Oriana doesn't look up from her work.

"Are you unicorn-blessed too?"

Oriana's bobbins stop, and my needle freezes. "How did you know?" Oriana says at last.

"Your threads glow like Mommy's hands when she does healing," Philomel says matter-of-factly. "And like my hair when I do magic. So. _Are _you unicorn-blessed?"

"Yes," says Oriana after a long pause. "Yes, I am." She turns to face Philomel, newly threaded braid swinging. "But you mustn't tell anyone, all right, Philomel? I've kept it a secret for a long time now, and I don't want anyone else to know. Can you promise to keep it between just you, your mother and me?"

Philomel nods readily. "Yes. I promise I won't tell anyone else." She flops down onto the sofa. "Why don't you want anyone to know, though?" she asks curiously.

"It's my business, not theirs." Oriana's thread shine as she weaves and knots them some more. A sudden shadow crosses the window, and we all look up. "What was that?" Oriana asks.

I don't reply. But I had the distinct impression that there were actually _two _shadows—two goblin shadows. Two goblins, sneaking up the outside of the building. And it looked like they were heading up to Vivienne and Heather's room.

I wonder what this portends.

Actually, it seems to portend nothing.

Another few days drag past. Nothing changes. Dark clouds gather in the sky over the islands of Elfhame, and I watch the rain pound down from the window in our sitting room. It flows down the gutters, obscures the gardens, makes the woods beyond a gray blur. I feel like our days have become like that: a senseless blur in which nothing moves, nothing happens, except the fear and anxiety grow.

Birch joins me at the window. It's the hour before dinner, and the children are playing with their toys behind us, Tatterfell laughing as she joins in. _Balekin probably has spies watching in those woods, _Birch signs, out of sight of the children.

_I know. _I give a frustrated sigh, raking my fingers through my hair. _I hate this. I almost wish something _would _happen._

_ I don't._ Birch looks grim. _The prince is going to do something soon. This stalemate can't last forever._

Stalemate. He's right, I realize: this _is _a stalemate, dragging on and on. A stalemate between us and Balekin, neither side able to move against the other. And all the while, rumors are flying around Court, and Eldred _must _suspect what's going on, but he's not making any move to act on the information. And until he does, we're helpless.

I let out a long, frustrated sigh. Something's got to happen. Something's got to break. The only question is when.

As it turns out, that something breaks the very next day.


	21. Chapter 21: Camera

Camera

The rain is just tapering off the next morning, tapping lightly on the windows. Birch and I are escorting the children to the schoolroom when a guard appears, halting our progress. "The General wants you in his study, Lady Taryn," he says. "You and the goblin both."

Beside me, "the goblin" raises his crest, tail twitching. "What does the old—does the General want now?" he growls.

"He did not tell me," the guard says coldly. "Please come with me."

"What about us?" Philomel demands, scowling.

"I'll stay with you." Oriana comes floating up the corridor. "I'll stay with them through lessons," she adds to me and Birch. "You should go."

This, more than anything, convinces me that we should. I hug the children quickly. _Mind your grandmother, and be good, okay? We'll be back soon._

"Okay," Dogwood says. He glances at Oriana and signs. _Will you tell us what Madoc says?_

_ If we can. _I wink at him and Philomel, and the children giggle.

They head into the schoolroom far more cheerfully than they would have mere weeks ago. Oriana, however, remains. She stares at me with some powerful but unrecognizable emotion.

"Taryn," she whispers, harsh and grating, "you should know that I've sworn to kill Madoc if anything happens to you. Sworn by the unicorn herself."

Birch's head comes up sharply. "Why? What's he up to this time?"

She just shakes her head. "Just go." She turns to enter the schoolroom, then abruptly turns again. She gives me a swift, hard hug. Surprised, I hug her back.

Then she's gone, and we're left with the guard. Without a word, he leads me and Birch down the corridor toward Madoc's study.

He opens the door for us and bows us in. There everyone is waiting: Cardan, my sisters, Heather, and Madoc himself, seated behind his desk. Everyone looks grave, except Heather, who looks like she's fighting down excitement.

"What's this about?" Birch folds his arms, tail twitching. "Just what are you up to this time?" he hisses at Madoc.

Madoc waves a clawed hand. "Have a seat, both of you, and you'll find out."

We take a seat on a cushioned bench and look inquiringly out at all the tense faces. Now that I'm getting a better look, I think Jude is secretly excited too: her eyes are very bright, and she gives me a tiny smile.

"Heather here has an idea," says Madoc, "for how we can proceed with a case against Balekin. Heather, please explain."

Heather sits up straighter. "First of all, can anyone detect the camera I have right now?"

Everyone but Madoc looks her over in bewilderment. I don't see a single camera anywhere.

"Come on, anyone?" A slow grin is creeping across her face. "You faeries: can't you see anything? Hear anything?"

"What exactly are we supposed to be seeing or hearing?" Cardan asks.

"This!" Heather pulls down her neckline, exposing a tiny silver disc. She yanks up her sleeves too, showing more odd pieces, and wires. Grinning, she takes a small box out of her pocket and hits a button.

We hear Madoc's voice coming out of it, tinny but clear: _"—A seat, both of you, and you'll find out. Heather here has an idea for how we can proceed with a case against Balekin. Heather, please explain."_

_ "First of all," _says Heather's voice, _"can anyone detect the camera I have right now?"_

Heather presses another button, and the recording shuts off. "Wearable technology," she says calmly. "The goblin twins brought it for me from Earth, along with a power source. I just recorded the conversation we had, and took a couple dozen pictures, without anyone realizing it."

"Really?" Birch leans forward interestedly. "Just how does it work?"

"How is that supposed to help us against Balekin?" Jude asks, folding her arms.

"And is that wearable technology turned off now?" Madoc demands, eyes narrowed.

Heather unplugs the little box from the wire and places it on the table. "There: no power source now. We're speaking in complete privacy." She leans forward. "And as for Balekin: think. If you want him punished for what he did to Taryn, you need him to admit it himself. If we accuse him on Taryn's behalf, he'll say that we weren't there, and all humans are liars anyway, and make himself out to be the innocent party."

"She's right," Cardan chimes in. "That's exactly what my dear old brother would do." He turns to Heather. "But he's never going to admit it on his own, you know. Not now, when he's making his bid for the throne. He can't afford a scandal like that."

"But he still wants to claim Philomel as his own," Jude points out. "It would help him immeasurably if he had an acknowledged heir."

"Exactly," says Heather. "That's why we're currently in stalemate, right? Balekin wants to claim paternity of Philomel, but he knows—or suspects, at least—that we all know what he did and can accuse him in public. Even if he somehow wriggles out of it, the accusation itself would still make him look really bad. We, meanwhile, want to bring him to justice, but we can't currently make any accusation stick. And we can't just murder him, because he's currently on guard against that, and it'd look mighty suspicious if he just turned up dead, now of all times." Her eyes slide to Madoc. "And you want to back your granddaughter's claim to the throne, right? But you can't make that stick unless it's widely known and acknowledged that she's a Greenbriar. And to do _that_, you've got to have proof of paternity."

I give a silent growl at this, and Birch raises his crest, flashing blue spots. Vivi looks like she's biting back a growl. Jude, however, smiles, and Cardan looks amused.

Madoc himself seems unperturbed. He gives Heather a slow nod.

"I see you are a woman of intelligence, Heather. Correct on all points. What, then, do you suggest?"

"We catch Balekin out." Heather holds up a piece of her wearable camera. "We make him admit to what he did, unknowingly, and claim paternity of Philomel. And we capture his confession on my audio equipment here. Then we take the recording to your King and make the accusation. Balekin won't suspect a thing until it's too late."

A stunned silence follows this. We all stare and blink at the astonishing novelty of Heather's idea. This would never have occurred to _any _of us, not even Birch or Vivienne.

"Do you really think that will work, Heather?" says Vivi, sounding tentative and hopeful.

"It should," said Heather. "If faeries can't detect wearable technology, as I think we've just proven. And Balekin won't see it coming at all."

He certainly won't. For a moment, my heart lifts, thinking of catching Balekin out in such a simple way. But then dread pits in my stomach as I realize what this plan entails.

I sign, and Birch translates. "How are we going to get Balekin to confess, though?"

For the first time, Heather seems uncomfortable. She shifts, and exchanges glances with Madoc, who also looks a bit shifty. "We'll have to get him alone," she says. "He's not going to confess anything unless he thinks no one is listening in."

"Alone with…who?" Vivi says slowly.

Sickeningly, inevitably, every eye turns guiltily to me. I swallow, trying not to be sick.

"It has to be you, Taryn," says Madoc quietly. "Prince Balekin isn't going to confess to anyone else."

"No!" Birch jumps up, crest flashing. "No, absolutely not!"

"_I _could do it." Jude jumps up too, clutching her healed hand. "Send me. I've pretended to be Taryn before. If we cut my hair and I kept my mouth shut—"

"That's the trick, isn't it?" murmurs Cardan, as though he just can't help himself.

"Shut up, Cardan. I can keep quiet if I need to, unlike some faeries I could name, who have no self-control." She can't help herself either. "And I'm not afraid to lie to that swine," she adds, holding her head high.

"It's a nice thought, Jude, but it won't work." Cardan shakes his head. "My brother's not the brightest faerie around, but he's not _blind_. He'll know right away. He's been obsessing over Taryn for seven years, and he's seen you nearly every day of that time. You think he won't be able to tell the difference?"

"I can fool him," she insists.

"Cardan's right, Jude," Vivienne says quietly. "You and Taryn don't even really look alike anymore."

"What do you mean? We're still identical," Jude says, but I think I know what they're talking about. I stand up and walk over to face my sister, one hand on her shoulder.

She quiets, looking into my face. Vivi's right: we _don't _look alike anymore. I've borne a child, and spent seven years in the wilderness, while Jude has been training as a knight. She has muscles where I don't; I have curves where she doesn't. I've spent years in shady deep forest while she's been in the open; I'm much paler than she is. My hair is cut short, while hers is long. There's a scar across her eyebrow that I don't have.

But it goes deeper than that. Our expressions, our gestures, the way we hold ourselves—all of these have grown apart. Even the look in our eyes is different. Identical we may still be, and will always remain—but Jude and I don't look anything alike anymore. There's no way Jude would be able to fool Balekin.

The realization grows as a darkness in Jude's eyes. She reaches up to squeeze my shoulder. "There must be another way," she says quietly to Madoc.

"Not if we're going to do this," he says, equally quietly. "And I believe this is our best option."

He must have told Oriana, I realize, stomach hurting. That's why she was so angry. She doesn't want us to go through with this. But what option do we have? I don't want Philomel to learn the truth, or help Madoc in his plans, but it's only a matter of time before the stalemate breaks. Balekin might come for me and Philomel, snatch us away; it would be a lot harder to deny his claims if he had us in custody, after all. Or he might simply announce his paternity, scandal be damned—and then where would we be?

"There's another option," Cardan says unexpectedly. "Taryn could lie. She could tell Eldred that I fathered Philomel."

Birch rolls his eyes in exasperation, while Vivienne and Heather both gape. "Just how would _that _work?" Vivi demands.

"Yes," says Madoc coolly. "How would that work, Your Highness?"

"Taryn seeks an audience with the King," Jude fills in. "She says she has news of the Lost Heir. She tells Eldred that she lay with Cardan. Eldred will be so pleased at having a grandchild, he'll pretend to believe it, even if he doesn't!"

"And what's to stop Balekin from pointing out that Taryn's lying?" Vivi folds her arms.

Jude's dagger gleams as she whips it out. "Oh, I'm sure there's a way to shut Balekin up," she says softly. She tosses the knife into the air and catches it lightly. "Eldred would probably be just as pleased."

"Jude's right," Cardan grins. "He probably wouldn't even investigate too closely."

"And then you become King?" Madoc asks Cardan. He seems unsurprised by this plot, and I wonder in alarm just how much he knew beforehand.

"Certainly not," Cardan says calmly. "No one's going to have me, and I don't want the throne—though no one seems to believe me when I say so." He heaves a deep sigh at the frustrations of life as an unambitious prince. "We're hoping Taryn can talk Eldred into living a few decades more with a granddaughter to inherit after him. Perhaps she can heal him."

Birch makes an angry, impatient noise. "It's an idiotic idea! You're betting your sister and your niece's lives on confronting a rapist or telling a pack of flimsy lies to the High King himself!" Birch is trembling with rage, tail lashing, crest stiff, hands fisted at his sides. "This is all _your _fault," he hisses at Madoc. "If you hadn't snatched us—"

"If I hadn't taken you, someone else would have," Madoc snaps back. "Someone who does not care for Taryn or Philomel, and certainly does not care to pursue justice against Balekin. And how would you like that, Birch of the Red Branch Tribe?"

"Oh?" Birch's crest is standing straight up now. "And just how are you 'caring' for Albia and Philomel, _General_? How are you keeping them safe? It's not as though you did such a fabulous job of it last time!"

Madoc's eyes flash, and he rises slowly up from his desk.

Heart pounding, I throw myself between them, holding up my hands. _Stop this! _I sign frantically, mouthing the words.

Jaw working, Madoc sits down again. Birch rounds on me, crest rattling. "Don't do this, Albia. Don't go along with it! That redcap's just serving his own ambition!"

His red eyes shine with desperation, and I want nothing more than to give in to his pleas. To take the kids and run away, back to the forest, where we were safe and free, far away from the Court and all its machinations. But that's not an option. It never really was.

I look at Birch. His love, his rage on my behalf. But it's not just me at stake here. It's him, too, and his son. Dogwood, who has been my son too, whose life and wellbeing depend on what I do next. And Philomel. Philomel, my daughter.

I think of what would follow if Balekin gets his way. Philomel and myself in his custody, everyone congratulating him on his miracle child. Eldred acknowledging him as heir. Philomel facing such a horror as her father. Dogwood tossed aside or maybe killed. Birch certainly killed, and Cardan too. My family exiled or dead. Balekin getting the throne. All of Faerie at his feet. Heartwood, the goblin twins, Bettina, the frog faerie, even the water hags—all of them, and all other faeries, at Balekin's tender mercy. War and misery and poverty everywhere. Faeries running riot in the human world, hurting, killing and maiming at will. Even those faeries who don't want to hurt mortals would start preying on the Ironside, driven to it by Balekin's cruelty and the desperation it would create.

It's up to me to stop him. It's up to me save us all. It has to be me.

Slowly, I go to Madoc's desk. I don't look at Birch. I don't want to meet his angry, incredulous gaze, as I pull over a piece of paper and start to write.

_I will do it_, I write to Madoc._ On one condition: you don't try to put Philomel on the throne. Swear that you will give up any attempt to make Philomel Queen, and yourself Regent, and I will face Balekin, and obtain his confession, and we will accuse him before Eldred._

Madoc's jaw clenches a little as he reads. I stand before him rigid, arms folded, waiting. Around us, everyone seems to hold their breath, waiting too.

At last, Madoc nods. "Very well. I swear that I will not put Philomel on the throne as High Queen, and I will not make myself her Regent." He pauses. "Furthermore, I swear that I will always protect Philomel and Dogwood as my grandchildren, and do what I can to further their interests." He gives me a quick, strangely sad smile. "Does this offer some compensation, Taryn?"

I nod, an odd pain in my heart. Whatever else he is, whatever else he's done, Madoc loves me. He always has, and he loves the children for my sake, too. He really will move heaven and earth for our sake. And now he's sacrificed his chance at the throne, so we can get justice.

Birch is still vibrating with rage. "If _anything_ happens to Albia," he spits at Madoc, "I swear by the Great Trees of Faerie that I am going to kill you."

"You'll have to get in line, goblin," Madoc says dryly. "My wife's already sworn the same thing." He takes a deep breath and turns to Heather. "So, Heather, how does this wearable technology actually work?"

After that, things move quickly.

Oriana calls in Tatterfell, and, with the children, my sisters and Heather in attendance, I practice wearing the wires and cameras under my clothes. They feel strange—the Velcro straps around my arms, the plastic-covered wires over my skin—and it's harder than we anticipated to hide them under my clothing. I walk back and forth across my suite's sitting room, raise my arms above my head, turn and twist, stretch and kick. The equipment must be absolutely hidden, no matter what I do. And it seems that a piece of wire is always sticking out, or the camera is gleaming, and Tatterfell has to rush forward to adjust my clothing yet again.

"What's this stuff supposed to _do_, anyway?" Philomel asks as Tatterfell fusses with my long sleeve.

"It's technology from the human world," Heather explains. She's standing beside me too, making sure that the wires don't fall off. "It records people's voices."

"I don't see why it can't record _me_," says Dogwood, sulking by the window. He's already angry that we've refused to record his voice on the equipment.

"We'll do you later," Vivienne promises. "Right now we need to save all the wire's power, and make sure it all works perfectly." Her eyes gleam. "Your mother's going to catch Balekin out!"

"Catch him out at what?" Philomel asks, fiddling with Lulu.

We adults all exchange covert glances, even Tatterfell, who's gathered something of what's going on. "Prince Balekin did something very bad, many years ago," Oriana says gently. "We're looking to get justice, but we need his confession."

Her jaw clenches as she says this, and my stomach tightens, remembering my first encounter with her after the interview in Madoc's study. Lessons were over, and she was playing with the children in the suite's sitting room, seemingly peaceful as she laughed with the kids. But, as we came in, she looked up with such a furious expression that Birch and I both stopped dead. She left Birch with the kids while she swept me into the bedroom.

"You've agreed to do it, haven't you?" she hissed, staring into my face as though all my sins and secrets were written on it. "You foolish, _foolish_ girl!"

_This is the only way to get justice, _I wrote on the notepad.

Oriana breathed, hard and ragged. She was angrier than I'd ever seen her before, sparks literally flying off her mane of hair. "I should get you all out," she murmured, hard and violent. "You and your children. Get you all out to the Ironside. My unicorn-spell will take care of Balekin."

_Running won't help. _I was certain of that. _It might be __years__ before your spell works. And your last unicorn-spell went pretty wrong, didn't it? _Shame crowded her eyes as she read that, and I felt guilty. But it was true._ We can't afford that. We have to move now._

She sighed, all her rage seeming to drain away. "Look at you," she whispered helplessly. "You sound like Jude. Or Madoc." She took a deep, deep breath. "All right. I'll help where I can. But I vowed to Madoc, and I vow to you, that if you get hurt or killed because of this idiotic plan, I am going to kill my husband with my bare hands."

I look at Oriana now, surveying me critically. I haven't seen her interact with Madoc since we formulated the plan, several days ago now. She hasn't even spoken to him at dinner, and I don't think they're sleeping together. She really _is _utterly furious about this.

And she's not the only one. Birch is angry too, with both Madoc and me. He vibrates with rage every time Madoc draws near, and, while he hasn't quite stopped talking to me, he keeps giving me accusing looks. The night after I agreed to Heather's plan, he did his utmost to talk me out of it, standing me in the sitting room while the children slept and arguing passionately. "There is no way in Faerie or Ironside that this is possibly going to work, Albia," he hissed. "It's not worth the risk! Balekin will figure it out. He'll kill you or kidnap you. And even if he doesn't, I don't trust that redcap any further than I can spit. He's up to something here, and it's not justice."

_He promised not to put Philomel on the throne, _I argued. _It's worth it for that alone._

"And you _believe _him?" Birch demanded incredulously. "You of all people? He'll find a way around it, sure as wind and tree roots. You're playing into his hands! You're exposing yourself to horrible danger for the sake of the General's ambitions!"

_So what do you propose we do?_ I demanded. _It's only a matter of time before Balekin acts. He'll go to Eldred and demand custody of Philomel. He'll attack us and carry us off! You have no idea how desperate he is to get the crown, Birch. How desperate he is for an heir. We have to attack him before he attacks us._

"'Us.'" Birch shook his head, laughing a little. "You don't see it, do you? You still think that redcap has your best interests at heart. He doesn't, Albia. He's using you and Melly in his own game, and this is just another move. You're a pawn on his chessboard, Albia, and he'll find a way to win, no matter what he's promised."

I didn't respond, but I had a horrible feeling that Birch was right. I still have that feeling now, as Tatterfell adjusts my sleeve. But what can I do? Balekin must die. For all our sakes, Balekin must be destroyed. We don't have time to wait for Oriana's spell. I have to do this.

Tatterfell finishes and scurries away. I cross the room again. I swing my arms. I curtsy deeply, as I would to royalty. I kick my legs and raise my arms over my head.

Vivienne claps her hands. "Perfect! I can't see a thing."

Oriana nods, and Jude says, "Perfectly hidden."

"She needs more practice wearing the apparatus, though," says Heather, standing back to eye me critically. "She looks so stiff right now that Balekin's bound to notice. You should wear the wire for a few days, Taryn, and practice turning it on and off. I'm betting he'll be on his guard. He can't notice anything the least weird."

I stiffen at this, fear rising. Jude notices and gives me a reassuring grin. "Don't worry. I'll be there, with the other knights. You'll be safe."

I give her a weak, wavery smile. Just last night, under Madoc's supervision and guidance, I wrote Balekin a note agreeing to a meeting at dusk on the night of the full moon, in the wood near Madoc's stronghold. I promised to come alone, but naturally I won't: Madoc and some of his knights, including Jude, are going to follow and wait nearby, ready to pull me away or fight off Balekin and his men if they try to snatch me.

Madoc watched while I stuffed the note into the gold-acorn and threw it out the window, to find its way to Balekin. I tried not to feel like I throwing my own life away, condemning myself to some hideous fate. Then Madoc took the confinement spell off me, so I could leave the house and grounds, for my meeting with destiny.

That's something, but not nearly enough. Discreetly, I rub my palms on my skirt and glance out the window at the sunny day. The full moon is only three days away.

Philomel scampers up, holding Lulu aloft. "Look, Mommy!" she chirps. "I put a wire on Lulu too." She shows me the red yarn, wrapped around Lulu under her clothes.

I smile. _Well done. Though Lulu doesn't need to wear a wire. _One thing Madoc and I are in perfect agreement about: Philomel does not come with me. She and Dogwood will stay in the mansion, under armed guard, with Birch, Vivienne and Oriana all wakeful and watching. Birch agreed to _this _part of the plan immediately.

"Who does Lulu need to record, Philomel?" Oriana asks curiously.

Philomel looks at her solemnly. "Enemies," she says with utmost seriousness, and looks up at me pleadingly. "Can _I _wear that wire, Mommy? Once you're done?"

_We'll see, sweetie. _I straighten, feeling the wires slither against my skin. _Let's go for a walk, _I say, trying to hide my nerves. _I need to practice._

I hold out my other hand, and Dogwood trots up to take it. I hope we can find Birch. He's been avoiding me a lot over the past few days, seeking the company of Heartwood and the other forest fey, as much as Madoc's guards will permit him. I bite my lip. I hope he's keeping safe.

We're halfway out the door when Heather suddenly yells, "On!"

The children yelp, and I jump, turning to stare at her. She shrugs, unrepentant. "You've got to learn how to turn it on and off at a minute's notice, Taryn. So turn it on."

I tug the little red wire and look at her questioningly. She shakes her head. "Too obvious, Taryn. You looked way too guilty."

Vivienne groans, knocking her head back against the window frame. "God. This is going to take _forever_."

The next morning, I awake to find the message-acorn falling from my hair again. My hands shake as I open it, for I already know who it's from.

_My lady,_

_ We shall discuss our business on the night of the full moon. I shall see you then._

—_B_

I crumple the note in my sweaty hand. The dawn's light is soft and gray. On either side of me, the children sleep, soft and quiet, faces rapt with innocence.

Oh, God, oh, Great Trees. I hope so much that I'm doing the right thing.

Balekin's note crumbles into ash, but I still tell Madoc about it, pulling him aside later that morning. He nods, and perhaps only a trained observer would see how his jaw suddenly clenches.

"This is good." He lays a hand on my shoulder. "We'll catch him out, Taryn. How's it going with that wire?"

I pull up my sleeve, showing him the listening equipment. I wore it all last evening, and I've been practicing turning it on and off this morning—not too much, since, as Heather stressed, the power pack isn't inexhaustible. It's vital that I turn it on as soon as I meet with Balekin, and clearly capture all of his words, and then we'll need to play it back for Eldred. I sigh. Even if everything goes perfectly, this is not going to be pretty.

And what about Philomel? I wonder later while I sit in on the children's lessons with Noggle. It's going to be shattering for her to find out the truth. Maybe she's too young to understand the full story now, but just having Balekin for a father is bad enough. And finding out she's a _princess._ Even though Madoc's sworn not to put her on the throne, this is still going to be a radical change in her life. And how will we stop the Court factions from closing in on her?

"Mommy?" I open my eyes to find Dogwood standing at my knee, peering anxiously into my eyes. "Are you okay?"

I nod and give him what I hope is a reassuring smile. And Dogwood. How is this going to impact my son? Will the courtiers try to use him to get at Philomel? Will he be shunted aside, shut out of his own sister's life? Shamed for being a commoner and a Mirror? This is going to bring such changes to his life. Do I even the right to do this to him?

I push aside my worries. There are no good options, but this is the best we have. I can deal with our troubles when they come. I kiss Dogwood and shoo him back to lessons. He goes slowly, glancing back at me, and Philomel is watching me worriedly too. I take a deep breath, sitting straighter.

There's no turning back now.

The day before the full moon arrives, warm and innocent with sun. The sky itself looks too pure a blue.

Birch, for a change, sticks close. He stays by me all day, as we attend the children's lessons, as Jude teaches them swordplay, even as I sit and sew with Oriana. He watches as she knits the lace web further.

"What is that?" he asks at last, abruptly.

"A project I am working on." Oriana's bobbins clack. The web is almost complete, a shimmering white network of threads.

Birch says nothing, but he looks from the lacework to me. And I know he's noticed the subtle white light around Oriana's "project", and recognized the unicorn's magic.

That afternoon, we all spill out of the house into the gardens: Birch, my sisters, the children and me, all under armed guard. I take a deep breath, trying to relax, as the children scamper ahead of me and the wires grind under my clothes.

A familiar figure detaches from the woods and enters the gardens, unchallenged by the guards. "Hi, Heartwood!" The children run forward.

"Hello, children. Have some apples. " Heartwood hands them both apples, which they munch happily. Going past them, Heartwood falls into step beside me. "Good afternoon, Albia," she says. "How are you these days?"

I shrug noncommittally. _How about you?_

She gives her own shrug. We walk on in silence a few minutes. Up ahead, the children's cries rise up. Philomel's dress flashes green as she runs.

"She's a beautiful child," Heartwood says suddenly. "Your daughter. A child to be proud of."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Jude jogs up, frowning slightly.

"Exactly what I said, Jude," Heartwood says lightly.

She gives me a long smile. For some reason, it makes my skin crawl, and I stare at her in alarm. _Heartwood, _I sign jerkily, _what's going on?_

There comes a loud, croaking cry over our heads. Jude and I look up, and, up ahead, the children slow to a halt, Birch reining them in. Even Vivi stops, staring upward at the metal bird swooping over our heads.

From the house and barracks come distant cries, and the woods are full of sudden rustles. Far away, someone screams. My heart clenches. That metal bird is about to say something terrible, something that is already sending ripples of chaos throughout the island.

"_Dead!_" cries the bird, voice echoing over the gardens. "_Dead! Prince Dain is dead!_"

"Ah," murmurs Heartwood with satisfaction, "right on time."

Jude's eyes widen. "Taryn, run!" She lunges forward, drawing a blade, but Heartwood's fist lashes out, faster than my eye can track, and my sister falls to the ground, gasping for breath. She immediately tries to get up, rolling to her feet, but a spell-arrow flies out of nowhere, hitting her in the side. Her eyes flutter and she falls back asleep, as the arrow evaporates.

Vivienne screams and races forward, but soldiers are already pouring out of the woods, and a spell-arrow hits her in the neck. Her eyes roll up and she falls to the ground. Up ahead, Birch tries to shield the children, but Philomel has already crumpled to the ground, apple rolling out of her grasp. Dogwood too falls, his own apple rolling away.

Birch snarls, standing over them, but a spell-arrow has already hit him, and he falls, eyes rolled up in his head.

Everything has happened so fast that all I can do is stand and stare, but now I scream silently, and lunge toward them, crying out voicelessly. But now a hand, heavy with spikes, wraps around my arm, and Balekin takes off his glamour, his disguise as Heartwood, and stands before me, here and horrible and r_eal_.

"Like I said, Taryn," he murmurs, eyes gleaming like a rabid beast's, "we're going to talk."

His hand comes up, and I rear back, trying desperately to avoid it, but there's no getting away, his grip is like an iron shackle and I can hear the shouts of Madoc's guards, but they're much too late as Balekin blows the powder into my face, gentle as a kiss.

The last thing I feel, before unconsciousness takes me, is Balekin lifting me into his arms, his grip like the walls of a prison, like hell itself.

I come to slowly. Blackness drifts across my mind, and it's a long moment before I can really focus, blinking my heavy, heavy eyelids slowly, feeling gradually returning to my limbs.

I'm lying on a bed. That's the first thing I'm really aware of. It's a comfortable bed, but utterly unfamiliar, made of curving branches. I blink, trying desperately to clear my vision. My thoughts are so sluggish. Overhead is a strange light fixture: a sort of chandelier of deer antlers, holding fey lights trapped in their branches. I've never seen it before.

Then I remember what's happened.

Horror chills through me, and I try to sit up, but just flop back. Whatever was in that powder is still coursing through me sluggishly. I groan silently.

Balekin drugged my children too: those apples. Oh, Great Trees. _Where are my children?_

The thought galvanizes me almost to cohesive movement. My eyes fly open, and I manage to flop over onto my side. The tiny room slowly comes into focus: windowless and shadowy with dark furnishings. Opposite of the bed is a tall, dark wooden door. On the wall is the stuffed head of a white deer with golden antlers and a rather shocked expression in its eyes.

Hollow Hall. This must be Hollow Hall. Balekin took me to Hollow Hall. My children must be here too. Oh, where are they?

I let out a sob and struggle up. I can move more easily now, the drug slowly clearing from my system, burnt out, perhaps, by my panic. I sit up, head spinning. I'm still wearing the wire under my clothes, I notice abstractedly, though my knife and poisons are gone from my belt.

My head spins hard, and I prop it up, heavy and awkward, in my hands. Think. I must think!

Balekin's kidnapped me, and no doubt snatched the children too, or at least Philomel. We all underestimated him, even Madoc, even Cardan. Balekin may not be that intelligent, but he's not entirely stupid either. He must have suspected my sudden capitulation right from the start. He took on the guise of Heartwood, creating a glamour that only a Greenbriar could, one that could trick even other faeries. And the moment Dain's death was announced—the moment when absolutely everyone was distracted—he snatched us.

I sob, tears stinging my eyes, thinking of Birch, of my sisters, falling unconscious to the ground, spell-arrows sticking out of them. I squeeze my eyes closed, forcing the images away. I can't think about them now. If I do, I'll collapse.

I have to find my kids. I have to get them out of here. But how? I know, surely as the full moon will rise tonight, that the door is locked. I can't get out.

My head's almost entirely clear now. I stand, carefully, and look around for some sort of weapon. But there's nothing: no ornaments I can snatch up, no furniture small and weak enough that I can break. There's not even a rug on the floor. I look at the bed, at the curved branches holding the mattress like a nest. Maybe if I could break one off, I could wait by the door and brain whoever comes in…But I'm not anywhere near as strong as a faerie at the best of times, and still weak from the drug. Whoever comes through that door is bound to be faster and stronger than I am. And even if I did manage to overpower them, I'd still have a whole mansion full of Balekin's followers to get past, and no idea where my kids are—

The door clicks. I freeze, tremors running through me, as it slowly swings open.

I can't move. I can't try to hide. I can't do anything except stand, shivering like a cornered deer, as Prince Balekin Greenbriar comes into the room and shuts and locks the door behind him.

He turns to me with a long, horrible smile. "Hello, Lady Taryn," he says softly. "It's time for our talk now."


	22. Chapter 22: Son

Son

I must not faint. I must not faint. I must not faint.

Balekin comes further into the room, and I back away, heart pounding. The memories come on thick and fast—_thrown back, skirts up, leaves and dirt, thorns, pounding, tearing—_so much that I can't tell past from present, and everything blends into a blur of horror.

Don't faint. Don't faint.

Something rubs against my skin, under my sleeve. The audio equipment. I'm still wearing it. They didn't take it from me.

Somehow, my fingers move. I pull the tab. The wire is now on, and recording.

Balekin speaks.

"How dare you?"

He glowers at me, as though _I'm _the guilty one. "How _dare _you hide my own child from me?" he demands. "My heir! A Greenbriar! A daughter of the High Throne of Faerie! How _dare _you, you miserable little mortal?"

He lunges at me, and I cower back, arms thrown up around my head. He raises a fist, and I'm certain he's going to bring it down, knock me out, kill me.

But he doesn't. His fist trembles, his jaw works, but he lowers his hand, shaking with the force of his rage.

He stares at me another minute, jaw working. Then he reaches into his jacket.

I start back yet again, but he brings out nothing more sinister than a thin golden wand. He holds it out to me. I stare at it.

"Go on, take it," he says impatiently. "It's not going to hurt you. Look." He twiddles the wand in mid-air, and it leaves a squiggle of lines that shine brightly for a moment before going out. "You can write on air with it."

Slowly, I take the wand, careful not to touch his skin. Then, trembling, I write my first question in mid-air.

_Where are my children?_

He smiles briefly. "Here in my hall. They're quite safe, I assure you, though still unconscious." He shrugs. "I fed them a species of ever-apple that grows only in the high Snoward Mountains. It has the odd effect of knocking faeries out for hours if they partake. But they _will _wake, and be completely unharmed."

I go limp with relief, letting out my breath in a silent prayer of thanksgiving. They're all right. My kids are all right.

Well, sort of. _What happened to Birch and my sisters?_

"Knocked out," he shrugs. "We didn't use any lethal weapons. I didn't want to risk any accidents to you or the children."

I stare at him warily. "Children", he said. _Why? _I demand. _It's Philomel you need, not Dogwood. Why take him?_

"Ah." He gives me a smile that makes me want to vomit again. "I'll get to that.

"Take a seat." He gestures at one of the bent-wood chairs.

I don't move.

"Lady Taryn," he says, very soft and dangerous, "I strongly recommend, for your son's sake, that you cooperate."

_Your son. _My blood turns to ice. I think I'm starting to see why Balekin took Dogwood.

Slowly, I go over and sit in one of the chairs. The wires slither under my clothes, but they're still recording. Drinking in every one of Balekin's words.

He doesn't sit in the other chair. Instead, he paces back and forth, back and forth, like an enraged panther in a cage. I stare in horrified fascination, suspended between dread and loathing.

"That iron-bloody brother of mine." Balekin lashes out, and I flinch as the other chair knocks aside. "That ungrateful little whelp," he mutters furiously. "After all I did for him. What does he do? He runs away and helps you hide my own daughter from me. Hides away my heir! He keeps me from the throne that is mine by right! Unbelievable…So ungrateful…"

I stare at him. It's not Dain he's talking about, not his dead brother. It's Cardan. Cardan, who he beat and tortured for years on end. Cardan, who he literally threw out of his house to seek shelter with his enemies. Balekin really, genuinely believes that Cardan betrayed him. That Cardan owed him loyalty, and should have told him of Philomel's existence the moment he learned of it. Just as he genuinely believes I had a duty to tell him of Philomel, had a duty to hand her over.

A swamping sense of despairing disbelief comes over me. Balekin really is that brutal, that selfish, that _stupid_. So much so that he makes Madoc look like an altruist.

Oh, Oriana. It wasn't your unicorn-spell that caused Balekin to rape me. The spell might have arranged fate so that he noticed me, but the assault, the rape, the curses—that was all Balekin. All his doing, and his alone.

_Did you kill Dain? _I write, shining in mid-air. It had to have been him or Madoc, after all. No one else had anything to gain from Dain's death.

Balekin pulls himself from his sulky ruminations on Cardan. "That is beside the point, Taryn."

So yes, I guess that means he _did _kill Dain. Not that I expected otherwise, really.

He looms over me, and I shrink away, skin crawling. I had no idea it was possible to be this _repulsed _by someone. He makes me want to shuck off my own skin because he looked at it.

"Philomel is my child," he grinds out. "You knew that right from the start. Why did you hide her away?"

I gape at him, too dumbfounded to even think. When I can write, the letters come out shaky and uneven. _How can you even ask that? You know what you did!_

"Your parents were practically throwing you at me," he sneers. "Why should any of you be surprised? And besides…" He practically preens, smugness washing over him, and something else: a wild elation that frightens me beyond anything else he's done. "That goblin Chieftainess told me. That the unicorn caused you to conceive my child. _My _child. The unicorn favored _me_. She wants _me _to be King. It's obvious. I am favored of the unicorn, one of the great ones of Faerie."

My head spins. Oh, Madoc, you_ have_ been busy. What poison did you tell Heartwood to drip into Balekin's ear?

_The unicorn didn't favor you, _I write at last. _She favored __me__. You raped me!_

At last. At last, I've said it to his face, the curse doing nothing to stop me: he raped me. The words hang, golden and poisoned, in the air.

"If I raped you," Balekin says after a long silence, "it was by the will of the unicorn." He gives the gentlest, most terrifying smile I have ever seen. It is the smile of madness, of a self-deception so engrained that any contradiction will simply slide off, disregarded. "She favors me," he says smugly. "The unicorn favors me." He gives me a strange, glowing look. "I knew from the start you were special, Taryn," he says softly. "It must have been the unicorn, guiding my desires. She knew you were destined to bear my heir. And afterward, when she blessed you…she blessed me, too. She brought my child to life. She wants me to be High King."

The room is whirling around me. I try to comprehend this—this—this blasphemous _perversity_—and I can't. I really can't. It's beyond me.

"But then you ran away." His mouth twists. "You ran away and hid my heir. Just like your mother. Mortals are all cowardly and selfish, it seems, even those blessed by the unicorn. But no matter. I will put things right. And you will help me."

Dread plummets even deeper in my stomach. _What do you mean?_

He gives me that awful smile again. "You're going to marry me."

For a moment, I cannot see. Nor can I hear. Or feel. Or think. All I can do is sit, gaping, mind even blanker and farther away than when I lay beneath his brutal thrusts in the garden.

Then I'm on my feet, in the farthest corner of the room, wand fizzing golden light in my hand as I shake my head, over and over, silently screaming a single word:

No! No! No!

He comes at me, but I duck and run away, to the other side of the room. I will run and dodge forever if need be. He's not going to touch me. He's never going to touch me again. And I will not do this thing!

"Taryn," he growls, "stop this. Now."

My mind whirls, thoughts skittering like dry leaves. I try to collect them, try to think logically. Because there _is _a brutal logic to this. Balekin might not be that intelligent, but there is a kind of crude cunning to the creature. He has a plan, and it makes sense.

Marrying me lends legitimacy to his daughter, strengthens her claim as heir, which in turn strengthens Balekin's claim. And who is going to bring up the issue of my rape if we're married? Well, my family will, but then Balekin will say, with perfect honesty, that he married me. And what faerie will come between two people who have made such oaths to one another? And marrying a Unicorn-Blessed will reinforce Balekin's claim to be favored by the unicorn.

How can Eldred possibly refuse Balekin the throne, when he's married to a Unicorn-Blessed, the mother of his daughter, a healthy, living heir? How can Eldred possibly convict him of rape?

But it doesn't matter. Because there is no way, in any world, that I am going to do this.

_You can't make me! _The words come out nearly illegible. But they're true: he can't _make_ me do this. If he enchants or drugs me into compliance, even if I say the words, they won't count—because it won't be _me _who said them, of my own free will. It won't be a true contract, and we won't be married according to the magic or the laws of Faerie.

I have to speak my vows of my own free will. And I never, ever will.

His eyes narrow. "And if I were to say that if you married me, I'd remove your curse of silence? You'd be able to speak again, like anyone else. Wouldn't you like that?"

I swallow. My palms sweat. I _would _like that. The thought of being able to speak again is a yearning, burning temptation.

That's how I know it's false. Balekin, of all faeries, would never, ever give me what I want—not in a way that benefits me. Oh, he'd give me my voice back _eventually_: maybe when I'm on my deathbed. Or he'd give my voice back and then take it away again immediately. It's the sort of petty, pointless malice that faeries like Balekin excel at.

And besides: my voice is nowhere near a good enough trade for what he wants.

_What about the other curse? _The words tremble in mid-air.

There's a quick flash of satisfaction in his face. He thinks I'm bargaining—that he's won me over. "No," he says. "That stays. I'm not having you blurt out that I raped you. That would be…embarrassing. But your voice…Marry me, and I'll let you speak again. I swear it."

I close my eyes against the knife-edged temptation. _You'll kill me. You'll marry me and then you'll kill me, and Dogwood, and my family._

"No I won't," he says quickly. "I swear it. Marry me, and when I'm King, you will be Queen. You can live the full, natural length of your mortal life as High Queen of Faerie." He lowers his voice seductively. "Think of that. Queen Taryn of Faerie."

I fight not to roll my eyes. For a moment, I feel an overwhelming sympathy for Cardan. Why does everyone assume that he and I both want some stupid title? And why doesn't anyone believe us when we say we don't? _And Dogwood and my family?_

"I won't kill them either," Balekin says. "Your son can live here. Your family will have to be banished, but unless they plot against me, I'll let them live." He smiles, slow and horrible. "All you have to do is marry me."

All I have to do.

Slowly, I shake my head. _That's not enough._ The writing burns in the dimness. _Even if you were to remove both curses, even if you make me Queen and give me all the power that goes with it, it still wouldn't be enough. I won't marry you, now or ever. _

"And what will you do instead?" he demands, soft and silky. "Put Philomel on the throne, with your treacherous father as Regent?" His fist clenches. "The goblin told me of that, too. The iron-bloody traitor wants _my _crown! Well, he can't have it. You're going to marry me, and then you're going to lie for me." That smile, again. "Tell everyone you lay with me willingly, gladly. Who will doubt your word when we're married?"

Oh, of course. He can't lie, but I can. And so Balekin will lie to the world. Through me.

I shake my head. I have never been more certain of anything, more icily determined. _I won't do it. I won't marry you and I won't lie for you. You cannot force me._

His mouth thins, and I take an involuntary step back. He looks like a wild animal, waiting to spring—worse, for he lacks an animal's innocence. "Oh, can't I?"

He snaps his fingers. Slowly, silently, the door opens. A long, still shape, floating in mid-air, drifts silently in. The door closes after.

It's Dogwood. Lying in mid-air, eyes closed, completely unconscious. Dogwood, my son.

For a moment, I can't breathe. When I can move, I dash forward, reaching for him, but Balekin stops me, one arm held to block my path. "None of that now," he says silkily. "I swear to you that your son is completely unharmed—for the moment. Whether he remains that way, however, depends very much on your immediate actions."

I stare at him. The floor crumbles beneath my feet. No. No. He can't mean this. Not Dogwood. Not my little boy.

But of course he does mean it. What is Dogwood to Balekin? It's Philomel he needs. To Balekin, my son is nothing. Except a useful tool.

"You love that boy like your own, don't you?" Balekin continues in that soft, soft tone. "I trust you understand the choice before you."

Oh, I do indeed. Marry my rapist, or watch my son be killed.

I turn my eyes to Dogwood. My little boy, asleep and helpless. Thistleweft's son. Birch's son. Memories pour through my mind in a torrent: the first time I ever saw him, as a sickly baby. How he cooed and kicked when I healed him, eyes bright with surprise and pleasure. His first word, his first steps. How he climbed all over the cottage, so I had to put a leash on him. His face when I had to tell him of his mother's death. Dogwood playing with Philomel and the village children. Dogwood throwing the spell back at the Ly Erg. A thousand, thousand precious moments that make up the life of this most precious boy.

Balekin's right. I love Dogwood like my own. He _is_ my own. And I really will do anything to keep him safe.

Slowly, I turn to Balekin.

And I nod.

He smirks. "I knew you'd see reason." He holds out his hands to me, imperious and expectant.

I stare at his hands, his thorny awful hands. Then, slowly, I raise my own. They feel as heavy as anvils.

He takes my hands, wraps spiky fingers around them. My rapist is touching me, skin on skin. The thorns gleam. The feel of his flesh is worse than rotting meat.

"I, Balekin Greenbriar, take you, Taryn Duarte, as my wife, from now until death may part us," he says, slowly and clearly. "I swear it, by the stars, by the waters, and by the Great Trees that uphold Faerie. You shall be my wife, and I your husband." He pauses. "If you, Taryn Duarte, take me, Balekin Greenbriar, to be your husband, by the stars, by the waters, and by the Great Trees of Faerie, from now until death may part us, give a nod, and I shall hold that as your vow."

This is wrong. Wrong. Wrong. Everything about this is wrong beyond wrongness. Vile. Repulsive.

But I nod. I look into Balekin's eyes, and I nod.

Then I can't control the reflex anymore. I bend over and vomit all over the floor.

Balekin lets go and leaps back just in time. His face is twisted with surprise and disgust. Shaking, I wipe vomit from my lips and straighten to give him a snarling smile. Oh, sorry, _husband_, was that too real for you? Too messy? I spit out the last of the bile at his feet.

He's shaking with rage. "If you ever do that again," he hisses, "I'll have you whipped."

I sneer, lip curling. I've just performed the most degrading and repulsive act of my life. None of his threats can frighten me now.

His mouth tightens. My sneer grows more pronounced. Take that, you shit. If this is what the first few seconds of our so-called marriage are like, Balekin, just imagine how the coming decades will be.

I spit again before I turn to go over toward Dogwood, but Balekin throws me back, a wave of deflecting magic. I stagger, nearly slipping in my own vomit, and he gives a hard, cruel laugh. "I'd better get the boy back to his room," he says cheerfully. "Our daughter should be waking soon, and I want to be there to greet her."

My defiance evaporates under chill horror. I leap forward again, and he pushes me back, laughing harder than ever. I crash back into the chair, head spinning. He snaps his fingers once more, and the door opens silently. Out he goes, without a single glance behind, towing my son's unconscious body with him. I throw myself after them, but the door slams shut, and I hurl myself over and over, banging at the door, pounding against it, again and again, screaming silently and uselessly, until blood stains the wood and I slide down to the floor, all my strength gone.

What have I done? What have I done? What have I done?

My eyes burn and blur, and I make no attempt to staunch the flow of tears, overflowing and then spilling onto the vomit-stained floor.

I barely have the presence of mind to turn the wire off.


	23. Chapter 23: Voice

Voice

I don't know how long I lie there weeping. I lie in a crumpled heap, tears blurring my vision, until even they give out and I lie dry-eyed and staring.

Dogwood. Philomel. What have I done to you?

Eventually, the door moves, gently nudging against me. More out of reflex than anything else, I scramble to my feet, staggering back as it opens. For a heady moment, I think I might be able to escape—but no. There are two armed guards waiting out in the corridor, even as the dull-eyed servants march in.

I step aside for them, shivering. These are not like Madoc's servants, alert and energetic and reasonably cheerful. They are all mortals, and stare silently from dull faces. Without a word—without the slightest hint of emotion—they start cleaning up the mess, wiping up blood and vomit, and lay out a tray of food for me. At no point do they even glance at me; they move mechanically, like dolls. My skin crawls, looking at their bony limbs, their blank faces, their matted hair, the strange cuts and stains on their gray skin.

When they're done, they file out. One of the guards locks the door behind them again.

I can't even think of eating. I prowl restlessly around the room, hoping against hope that I will find some kind of escape route. But there's nothing: not a vent, not a window. I'm trapped in this box, and helpless to save my kids. I can't even call out. Just as I expected, Balekin did nothing to remove the curse.

Eventually, I sink down again.

I don't exactly go to sleep, but I fall into an unrestful state of semi-consciousness, through which unthinking rage, horror and helplessness waver like a fever. I don't know how long I remain in this state, but I do know when I'm roused from it.

I raise my head at the sound of footsteps outside my door. The guards' voices rise in challenge. Then a series of swift, hard bangs.

I scramble to my feet, facing the door, and my heart hammers as soft footsteps approach. Then I hear Vivienne's voice through the door.

"Taryn? Philomel?" she calls softly. "Are you in there? Knock on the door if that's you."

Astonished relief and joy rush through me. I run forward, to knock hard on the door.

"It's one of them!" Vivi reports in a tone of soft joy. "Are you Taryn? Or Philomel? Knock twice if it's Taryn."

I knock twice.

"It's Taryn!" Now I hear Jude, very close by.

"Mommy!" Dogwood cries. My heart clenches.

"Shh, Dogwood," murmurs Cardan. "We can't let anyone hear us. Birch, what can you do about this door?"

More footsteps, and a scraping sound. I press against the door, heart hammering.

"Powerful spell on it," Birch grunts. "But maybe…Albia, stand back."

I step back, and a small eternity goes by while I stand rigid in the center of the room, willing that door to open, while a series of barely perceptible scratches and shifts sound outside in the corridor. Please, please, don't let anyone come.

Then I notice that the wooden doorframe is…crawling. The wood is melting away, creeping back from the door, which wobbles, then sways—

I jump forward and just barely catch the heavy door before it clunks to the floor. Birch seizes it too, and together we lower it silently down.

"Enchantment on the door but not the doorframe!" Cardan whispers, sounding impressed. "Clever."

"People always overlook the doorframe," says Birch wryly. He reaches a hand to help me over the fallen door into the corridor where my family waits.

"Mommy!" Dogwood whispers tearfully, and I go to my knees to throw my arms around him, holding him as tight as I can. I squeeze him hard: my boy, awake, alive, real under my touch. Every part of him, whole. Safe and unharmed. My relief is as potent as my terror, and both bring tears to my eyes.

Without letting go, I look up at the others: Birch, Jude, Vivienne and Cardan, standing in this shadowy hallway adorned with mounted antlers. Jude's sword is drawn, and even Cardan is armed with a dagger. At their feet, two unconscious guards slumber, swords near their fallen hands.

"Albia," says Birch shakily, "are you all right?"

Pain stabs through my elation, and shame. I can't look at him. I nod, forcing myself to let go of Dogwood and step back. _Are you okay, Dogwood?_ I sign._ Did anyone hurt you?_

He shakes his head. "I woke up locked in this little room," he says. "I didn't see anyone until Uncle Birch and everyone came and rescued me. Come on, we gotta find Melly!" He tugs me down the corridor.

"Yes," Cardan whispers. "Jude knocked out those guards, but there will be others. Follow me. I think I know where Balekin's probably keeping Melly."

"Wait." Jude hurries forward to hand me my knife and salt pouch. I take them, nodding thanks, and clip them on. I stand a little taller, feeling better with my weapons back, then I take Dogwood's hand again, holding tight.

We all stream silently after Cardan down the corridor, Jude taking up the rear with her sword drawn, me holding tight to Dogwood. Reaching forward, I squeeze Birch's arm. He looks back with a quick smile, but raises his finger to his lips.

I nod; there's no time for him to explain how they got here, or me to explain what happened. We have to rescue Philomel, and then we have to get out of here. We run silently down the corridor that seems to stretch on forever.

We stop abruptly at Cardan's waved hand, right before we round a corner. He takes a quick look and whips back. He holds up two fingers and mouths the word _guards_.

Jude nods and steps forward, holding her sword. Vivienne creeps up too, hands already wreathed with enchantments. Birch and I, meanwhile, step back, holding Dogwood.

Cardan nods, grins, and leaps silently around the corner, enchantment leaving his hands in a flash of blinding light. The guards cry out, then choke as Cardan's spell silences then, and then it's Jude's turn to leap forward. Two heavy thuds sound.

"Come on!" Vivi whispers. "It's safe."

Birch, Dogwood and I stream around the corner. Two guards lie unconscious on the floor before a tall, dark door. Cardan straightens his clothing, looking smug. "Thought so," he whispers. "My old bedroom. Balekin fitted it out with every possible containment spell while I was living with him." He raises a hand to knock on the door and then reels back, his fist bouncing off midair. "Yikes!"

The door's so heavily enchanted that dull purples sparks are flying off it, so even mortals like me can see. My heart races: Philomel _must _be in there! But if it's so enspelled that even Cardan can't approach it, then there's no way to get her out.

Unless…Gently, I pull Dogwood forward. _Dogwood, _I sign, _do you think you can destroy the spell on the door?_

"I…don't know." He gives the door an utterly intimidated look. "I've never…This is really strong…"

_Can you try? For Melly's sake?_

Resolve fills his black ink-drop eyes, and he straightens, nodding. He approaches the door, holding his hands out. Without speaking, Jude and Vivienne both fan out, guarding opposite ends of the hall, while Cardan, Birch and I watch Dogwood anxiously.

It's obviously costing him, and I bite my lip against fear. His hands, held up against the spells, start to tremble slightly, and he flinches a couple of times. This isn't the effortless ease with which he echoes or negates most spells. The enchantment writhes a foul purple, converging sullenly in the door—

Dogwood suddenly gasps, and there's an almost inaudible _pop._ And the enchantment is gone.

"Well done, my boy!" Birch barely has time to say before the door suddenly bursts open and Philomel comes flying out.

Into my arms she flings herself, and I wrap my whole body around her, hold her as close as I can, as if I can tuck her into my body again, keep her safe from all harm. I feel her tremble against me, with relief and fear, and tears of joy and tears of terror sting my eyes, that my daughter is here, unharmed, but that _this _has happened to her, happened to us. To Philomel, my daughter, and to Dogwood, my son.

"Mommy," she whispers brokenly, and my heart cracks at what I hear in her voice. "Mommy."

I pull back to look at her tearstained face. Hand shaking, I push a hank of white hair from her face. She stares at me, purple eyes full of desperate tears.

"Um," Jude says, "I hate to interrupt, but can we get on, please? We need to get out of here."

Dashing tears from my eyes, I nod. I stand up, grabbing both Philomel's and Dogwood's hands. I'm never letting go of either of them again, I vow fiercely as we run silently back down the corridor.

"Mommy," Philomel whispers shakily as we go, "that man…Prince Balekin…He said…"

"Never mind that now, Melly," Birch murmurs. "Let's get out of here first."

We run down a few more empty corridors. "Where _is _everyone?" Vivi whispers, and I realize she's right: the mansion is strangely deserted. My heart thuds: surely someone must have noticed our invasion? This isn't normal.

Cardan seems to realize it too. "Backstairs," he whispers, and turns a sharp left. He leads us out of the higher-ranked living areas, into a complicated labyrinth of tiny corridors and bare little rooms. "Servants' quarters," Cardan explains briefly.

"You seem to know your way around," Jude murmurs.

"I used to live in this house, remember?" he returns tersely. "I spent a lot of time hiding from Balekin back here. Here we go!"

We pour down the narrow twisting backstairs, into the back courtyard. And there we discover the reason why we didn't encounter anyone on our flight out.

Philomel recoils and Dogwood snarls, tiny crest rising. My heart pounds in my throat. Balekin has his whole household guard assembled here in the yard. My skin crawls as he himself steps forward, that horrible smirk in place, hellish in the flickering torchlight.

"You didn't really think I was stupid enough not to set alarm spells in place, did you?" he says. A smug grin grows on his awful face. "Just where do you think you're taking my wife and children?"

"Your _what_?" Jude screams. She glances at me, wide-eyed and incredulous. All the others do, too, except Birch. He stands stock-still, crest standing straight up, eyes blazing like hadean flames as he stares unblinking at Balekin.

Philomel bursts into fresh tears. "That's what he said!" she sobs. "He came when I woke up, and he said I was his daughter and he was my father and that Mommy had just _m-m-married_ him!" She buries her face in my side, shaking with shock and loathing. "I won't have him, I won't, I won't, _I won't_!"

"Me neither!" Dogwood steps forward, crest bristling. "You let us go!"

"I will not." So cool he is, so smug, as though all our rage and protests must inevitably come to nothing. "Taryn is my wife, you are my stepson and Philomel—" Here he shoots my little girl a glance of pure triumph and avarice. "—Is most definitely my daughter—"

Balekin breaks off with a scream as a brown streak shoots at him to land on his back, clawing, biting and snarling. Birch slashes at Balekin with his claws, clings tight as he sinks his razor-sharp goblin teeth into Balekin's neck. Balekin shrieks, staggering as the blood flows, black in the torchlight.

_Birch! _I scream silently, and half-rush forward, a handful of salt already in my fist, knife in my hand. But I hesitate: Birch and Balekin are so knotted together that I can't be sure that my salt wouldn't hit Birch instead of Balekin.

Balekin screams, trying desperately to get Birch off, but Birch clings tight, claws slashing. "Kill him! Kill him!" Balekin shouts.

"NO!" Philomel screams, and her hair blazes forth with unicorn-light as she summons her silver fire, leaping in a river of flame, straight for Balekin.

Birch yelps and leaps off, away from the wave of flame, and Balekin, bloodied and bruised, just barely dodges the fire, cursing. His hair singes as he ducks. I see my chance—I dash forward—and my knife flashes in the firelight and my poisoned salt hisses as I throw it directly into Balekin's wounds.

Balekin shrieks in agony. He sinks down, clawing at his face, smoke rising from the cuts and scratches as my poisons eat into his burned, shredded flesh. His soldiers step back, shouting, under the assault of silver fire as I leap back, grab hold of my children's hands and race around the cursing Balekin, toward the back gate.

There's a thud behind me, and I look back just in time to see Jude, her teeth bared, kick Balekin savagely in the head, knocking him down, before running forward with the rest of us, her sword drawn. Dogwood is suddenly lifted from my side, and I look over to see Birch scoop his son into his arms. He nods at me, and we run together, all of us, through the gate and into the night.

Arrows shoot over our heads, but none hit us. Balekin's soldiers start to pursue us, but their lord is still screaming with agony, and they seem unsure what to do. They fall back, shouting in confusion, as we run down the slope and into the woods.

It's much darker in here, and Jude and I crash around, mortal eyes blind. "Quiet!" says Cardan. "Hold still." There's a yellow-gold gleam, and a glow evolves over Cardan's head, sending eerie shadows over our faces, turning the woods into a jagged wilderness, but allowing us mortals to see once more.

Jude turns to me at once, her eyes dark pits in her magic-lit face. "Balekin made you _marry _him?"

I nod, tears stinging my eyes, and sign. Birch translates grimly. _Balekin brought in Dogwood unconscious, and threatened to kill him if I didn't marry him._ My son draws a breath at this, shrinking. I put an arm around his shoulders, holding him tight, trembling against me. _I had to do it. _Birch's voice shakes.

Cardan hisses breath between his teeth, and Vivienne curses. Jude holds very still. I don't dare look at Birch, or the children, but I feel them staring, appalled and stunned.

Jude pulls herself together first. "Well, Taryn," she growls out, "you will simply have to resign yourself to an early widowhood." She turns away, light glinting on her sword. "Come on. Heather and Oriana are meeting us at the beach. We're all going Ironside, at least for now."

_Where's Madoc? _My hands shake as I sign.

"Outside Hollow Hall with his troops, ready to lay siege or attack," Jude says. "He thinks we're taking you back to the stronghold and we'll signal him when you're safe." She gives a swift grin. "Hopefully he won't realize the lie until it's too late."

I gulp a bit at this, but stand up. I take my children's hands, cold in mine, and we start through the woods, following Cardan's light. Jude takes up the rear, sword at the ready.

"Mommy." I've never heard Philomel sound like this: so small, so scared, so broken. She looks up at me with anguished eyes. "That man…Prince Balekin, he…He's really my father?"

Miserably, I nod. On my other side, Dogwood draws breath, clutching me. Philomel's eyes fill with tears.

"I'm sorry, Melly." Birch comes up beside Philomel. He gives her a quick, sad smile. "We're both sorry."

"Why didn't you tell me?" Her voice rises in anguished misery.

"Albia couldn't tell you," Birch says gently. "Prince Balekin cursed her so she could never tell."

"But why?" Dogwood demands raggedly. "Why would he do that?"

"Because Balekin hurt her," Vivienne speaks up harshly. "Prince Balekin hurt your mother, and he didn't want anyone to ever find out what he did."

I watch in anguish as Philomel struggles to make sense of things she's never faced, that no child should ever have to face. "He…hurt you? How?"

Nobody replies. I just shake my head. We continue on in silence through the dark woods, toward the unseen voice of the ocean.

"I'm the Lost Heir, aren't I?" Philomel's voice rings thin and bleak in the nighttime woods. "The Lost Heir everyone's always talking about. That's why Madoc wanted us, isn't it? That's why Balekin wants us."

"Yes," says Birch gently, and I nod. "I'm afraid so."

Philomel bows her head, and tears fall to plop on the forest leaves. Both my children tremble against me, and I gather them closer, holding them to my sides as we walk. Tears gather in my own eyes. I hate this. I hate this so much.

Through the trees, we can see the gleam of the ocean, and hear the waves, louder than ever. "Almost there," says Cardan.

As if that is the signal, we suddenly stop moving. We don't mean to; it's like we've all suddenly run face first into an invisible wall. Even Cardan stops dead, frozen.

"What is this?" Philomel's voice rises, hysterical. "What's happening now?"

My hands move. I don't want them to: they just move of their own accord, unclipping my salt pouch and knife and letting them fall to the ground. Up ahead, Cardan also removes his dagger, tossing it aside, and Jude curses as whatever spell we're under forces her to throw aside her sword and, from the sounds of it, several other weapons.

Then I take a step forward. We all do. We have no choice. Our feet start moving, carrying us steadily out of the woods and onto the wide, silver beach, glowing in the starlight, waves crashing moon-white on the shore. We take a sharp turn and head north along the beach, our legs moving steadily, however we strain to stop them.

Up ahead, I see a two familiar figures, also walking, and I know Oriana and Heather have fallen under the same spell, and are also being sucked in. "What is this?" Birch shouts, obviously straining to stop himself, but unable to.

"I'm not sure," says Cardan in that light, humorous voice that I've learned is a mask for fear and anxiety, "but I think we're under arrest."

Jude curses, trying to fight, but keeping walking with the rest of us. "Who's arresting us?"

"Eldred, of course," says Cardan, half-laughing. "He must have just cast the arrest-spell, and now it's dragging us back to the palace."

"Well, you don't need to sound so happy about it!" Jude struggles, but there's no fighting the spell. Our legs carry us all briskly along the beach, northward toward the palace.

Cardan just gives another maddened laugh, half-drowned by the surf. Our feet move with utter swiftness and surety. Philomel's hair glows, and I know she's trying to cast a spell, to fight the arrest, but there's nothing she can do, nothing even Dogwood can do as an Echo. This is the King's order, and none of us can defy it.

We climb up a bluff, away from the shore, and there we find our escorts awaiting us. Soldiers wearing Eldred's crest, holding torches around three prison-wagons: cages set atop wheels, drawn by skeletal nightmare-horses. Oriana has already climbed into one cage that contains—my heart jolts—Madoc. My stepfather doesn't greet us, but sits still and stiff in the cage as one of the soldiers swings the door shut behind Oriana. Heather, meanwhile, climbs mindlessly into the third wagon.

Birch, the children and I all climb into the second wagon. We have no choice. Our bodies just walk up to the cages and clamber obediently inside. There we sit, still and passive, as our captors lock the door on us. I don't know why they're bothering. We can't even try to escape.

"Mommy?" Dogwood takes my hand, whispering. "Where are they taking us?"

_To the palace, I think_, I sign as Cardan and my sisters climb into the third wagon after Heather. They're locked in, and then the wagons all start to rumble forward, northward toward the palace. _Just sit still and be quiet. _I squeeze his hand reassuringly as the wagon jolts and sways.

We rumble up the road across the island. Most of the faeries are asleep at this hour, but still some emerge, from houses we pass, or clamber down from trees, to watch our procession. They watch silently, with wide eyes, or whisper and speculate. But the guards say nothing to them, or to us. We continue our steady, jolting progress, all of us silent, prisoners and guards alike.

As we pass a crossroads, another prison-wagon comes rumbling up to join our caravan. I take a look, and my insides clench.

This wagon contains Prince Balekin, nursing his wounds. He looks up as his wagon joins our procession, and I feel a jolt of malicious glee to see his face, torn with claw-wounds, shiny with burns and puffed with salt poisoning. Philomel lets out a sob, and Birch curses quietly. Both my children crawl onto my lap, and I hold them close as Balekin's wagon falls in behind Cardan's and my sisters'. Birch moves, tensely watching Balekin's cage.

On we roll, and now I can see the lights of the palace gleaming in the distance. Philomel sees those lights too. She stiffens and gasps in my lap.

"What's wrong?" Birch asks as Dogwood and I look at her in concern.

"Nothing." She stares at the distant lights in fascination. "I just…I feel _stronger_."

"What do you mean?" Dogwood asks.

"My magic," she says wonderingly. "It's…getting _stronger_. Inside me."

Birch and I exchange glances, but say nothing as we come ever closer to the palace and Philomel gives repeated gasps. Her hair glows dimly, and even her eyes begin to shine like stars, the closer we come to the palace. And it makes sense, I realize. Philomel is a Greenbriar princess, a princess who knows herself for who she is now, and we are entering the beating heart of Greenbriar power: the royal palace of Elfhame. Of course her power is waxing stronger as we approach. For a wild moment, I wonder if she'll be strong enough to break us free, but I know that won't happen. Eldred is still High King, and we are under his arrest.

Our caravan enters a lower courtyard, lit by torches. Our guards open the doors, and we all climb obediently out, even Balekin, even magic-glowing Philomel. We're still under the arrest-spell, it seems, even within the palace: our bodies turn and march immediately toward the doors to the palace proper, without any prompting from the guards. Still they fall in around us, as if to advertise our status as prisoners. Behind me, I can hear one of them ordering someone to see that a healer is waiting for Prince Balekin in his chamber. I guess Eldred wants us all alive and in good health.

Once inside, we head down a narrow corridor. I wonder at first if we're going toward the dungeons, but our feet take us up a flight of stairs, and we thread our way into a respectable precinct of the castle: not the resplendent royal apartments, but some kind of mid-grade residential corridor, with carpets on the floor and tapestries on the walls.

Up ahead, I see Madoc disappearing into one door, and Oriana into another, marching obediently. With each entrance, the doors shut and lock, and a pair of guards take up position outside. I barely have time to register this before my arrest-spell yanks me and the children sharply to the right and we enter our own room.

The moment the door locks behind us, the arrest-spell releases its grip. The children and I all sigh with relief, muscles relaxing as our bodies come back under our own control once more. I look around curiously. This room is windowless, but larger than the shadowy chamber where Balekin imprisoned me, and it glows soft gold with fey-lights. It's set up like a lady's bedchamber, with a large curtained bed and a closet and bureau. There's no mirror, though, no ornaments: nothing we can break up or use as a weapon. I sigh. At least this time my children are with me. And there's no chance of Balekin coming in.

Philomel thumps down onto the carpet, staring blankly. Her hair glows like the moon, her eyes like stars. _Are you all right? _I ask in concern, kneeling beside her.

She nods, blinking. "It's just…I'm so _powerful _here." She frowns. "But…I can't…I can't do anything to escape…Can't cast a spell that would…"

I nod. _King Eldred has us under arrest._

"But why?" Dogwood thumps down on my other side, black eyes huge.

_I don't know. But I think we'll find out in the morning. _If morning ever comes. I rub my forehead wearily. This night has lasted forever.

A moment's silence passes. It's very peaceful. I know I should feel something—dread, anxiety, rage, apprehension, worry—but perhaps I've just been through too much tonight. All I can feel is a numb, exhausted relief that I'm alone with both my children, at least for now, and no one is going to come bother us for a while.

"Mommy." I look down to meet my daughter's star-glowing eyes. "I can…I can _see_…"

"What?" asks Dogwood, crowding close.

"The spells." Philomel stares wonderingly. "There's two spells on Mommy. I can _see _them. Like…like tree roots, all over you." Her hands trace in the air, illustrating. "It looks really weird."

"Really?" Dogwood peers at me, as though he might suddenly see as well.

Philomel grips my arm, and for the first time, I have an intimation of her true faerie strength. "Balekin put them there, didn't he?" Her voice rises. "He cursed you!"

I try to sign, to explain, but the curse yanks my hands back into my lap. I bite my lip. I guess the children don't exactly _know _about the rape, so the curse is still in effect as far as they're concerned.

"There!" Philomel shouts triumphantly, pointing. "Right there. The roots sort of—squeezed you." She peers even closer. "Mommy," she whispers, "I think…I think maybe I can break those spells right now. While I'm so powerful."

My heart leaps in my throat: a wild combination of hope and terror. _Don't! _My hands shake.

"Why not?" she frowns.

_Because you might get hurt._

"But Mommy," Dogwood pleads, "don't you want those curses broken?"

I stare at him, stunned by the simplicity of this question.

"Don't you?" he persists.

Slowly, I nod.

"Then let us try." Philomel takes my hand, and Dogwood takes the other.

After a moment, I squeeze them both.

"Okay." Philomel scoots around in front of me, followed by Dogwood. Dogwood stares intently eyes boring into me. Philomel's hair starts to brighten, softly at first, then growing so brilliant that I have to shut my eyes—

My children's gifts shoot through me, unlike any other spell I've ever experienced: Philomel's magic like silver fire, Dogwood's anti-magic like cool shadow. They burn, they flow through me, Philomel's fire illuminating every last tendril of the curses, scorching them, singeing them back. My nerves light up with something that is not quite pain, but equally startling, and I grip my children's hands hard as Dogwood races after Philomel, along each weakened tendril of the curses, destroying them bit by bit, echoing and reflecting them away in shattered pieces—

I gasp and fall over, all my strength leaving me as the last of the curses spins away into nothing and my children's powers drain out of me. Tears sting my eyes. For a wild, absurd moment, I regret the loss of the curses, and miss them desperately. Balekin's curses have been part of me for so long that, in their destruction, I'm losing a part of myself.

"Mommy?" Dogwood and Philomel crowd close, little faces anxious. "Are you okay?"

I open my mouth. And for the first time in seven years, I make a sound: an awful, gluey, indistinct noise, oozing from my throat. Of course: after seven years, my vocal cords have atrophied.

"Mommy!" They look more anxious than ever.

Hastily, I sit up. _Help me, Dogwood, _I sign, and summon the unicorn's gift.

Dogwood promptly echoes it, his hands entwined with mine. Together we apply the unicorn's magic to my throat.

I feel my vocal cords heal, flesh firming up inside my throat. I take a breath and let it out again, vibrating it over my vocal cords. A clear sound emerges, a hum. My throat buzzes. I take another breath, and another, and then I speak.

"Children." It comes out soft and hoarse, and I cough. "Children," I repeat, my voice coming out firmer, clearer, and I marvel at the experience of it, the vibration in my throat, the sound in my mouth, the feel of the words against my tongue, my teeth. "Dogwood," I say wonderingly. "Philomel."

"Mommy!" They throw themselves into my arms, hugging me tight. "It worked!"

"Yes," I whisper, astonished as I continue speaking. "Yes. You…You saved me."

I look down at them, my two miraculous children, and I can hardly see them for the tears crowding my eyes, blurring everything. They saved me. My children saved me. They broke Balekin's twin curses, as simply and as easily as that. My children have restored my voice, and set me free.

"Philomel," I whisper, reveling in my daughter's name on my tongue, at last, after so long. For the first time ever, I can say my children's names aloud. "Dogwood."

"Mommy!" they giggle. And we all laugh for joy while we sob, alone and imprisoned in Eldred's palace.


	24. Chapter 24: Manticore

Manticore

We're fully dressed and ready when door opens and the royal guard stands in the frame, blocking the light. "It's time," she says, light shining on her horns. "The King summons you."

I nod silently and straighten the gown I found in the bureau, making sure the wire is safely hidden beneath my clothing. I neaten the children's clothes. Then, taking their hands, I lead the children out, our heads held high.

We've spent the night, my children and I, as we have spent every night of their lives: curled up in one bed, cocooned by a warm and unspeaking love. Philomel tried to make me speak more, but I couldn't: I've been silent for so long. I can't just give it up in one night. Dogwood finally called her off, gently, and we went to bed, digging up nightshirts in the bureau and climbing in. I fell asleep with my two children nestled warmly on either side of me, their breathing soft and steady.

We only awoke when two palace brownies came in with breakfast. We ate silently. Even Philomel didn't ask me to speak. I didn't try. I didn't feel ready, and something told me to keep silent. Maybe it told the children too, because they stayed quiet, communicating in sign language as we found the clothes in the bureau: clothes fit for a presentation at Court. Clothes fit for a royal trial.

We played together quietly all morning, until the guard came to fetch us. Now my son and daughter walk along on either side of me, through the endless earthen tunnels and light-filled airy halls of the Palace of Elfhame, following the guard and threading our way up and up, to Eldred's main audience chamber.

Up ahead, gathered outside the doors, I see a familiar group. It's my family, and Heather, and Birch and Cardan. And Balekin. All under guard as I am under guard; not bound but only because we can't run away. King Eldred's will commands us all.

Balekin looks up at our approach, and I feel a flash of satisfaction, seeing his face still flushed and swollen. The palace healers are capable of great things, but they are not unicorn-blessed. I'm half-tempted to let the unicorn's light wreath around my fingers, just to taunt him, but resist.

In his poisoned face, Balekin's eyes flash at me, at my daughter. My lips curl away from my teeth. Dogwood gives a hiss, crest rattling, and Philomel puts her arms around me protectively. I hold my head high, staring back at Balekin coldly, and it's him who looks away first.

Birch comes over, glaring at Balekin and raising his crest. "Albia?" he murmurs softly. His hands flutter near me, not quite touching. "Are you all right? And the kids?" He peers at them anxiously.

I nod. It's on the tip of my tongue to say it aloud, to speak—but no. Not yet.

My sisters and Oriana flow over, crowding around me and the children protectively, glaring at Balekin. In the background, Madoc glowers like a hulking mountain.

"Well, well," says a familiar but very unexpected voice. It's Dulcamara, leering at us around one of the royal guards. "So _this _is what we've all been summoned here for?"

"Get gone, knight," one of the guards growls. "You should be in the audience chamber with your king."

"On the contrary." Dulcamara erects an unconvincing saintly air. "My lord Roiben ordered me to try and find out what was going on. To discover, if I could, the reason why King Eldred magically summoned every single monarch in Faerie last night and currently has them all crowded in his audience chamber."

Even Balekin looks up at this, blinking. "He did what?" Jude asks.

"Ripped every last monarch in Faerie from their Courts and magically transported them all here," Dulcamara says. "Along with assorted hangers-on like me. All, apparently, for you." She cranes around Jude, looking at me. "Or, more probably, for _you_, Lady Healer." She shakes her head regretfully. "You really should have accepted my offer, Unicorn-Blessed."

"What offer?" Dogwood wants to know.

"I offered to help you and your mother and sister join the Court of Termites, a couple of months ago," Dulcamara explains. "She really should have accepted. Then we wouldn't be in this ridiculous position."

"No," says Cardan thoughtfully. "We'd probably be at war by now."

Dulcamara bares her teeth at him. "You say that like it's a bad thing."

"Sir Dulcamara." The guards close in around her. "Back in the audience chamber. _Now_."

"All right, all right, I'm going…" Dulcamara buzzes her wings innocently and slips through the doors into the chamber. Through the gap I glimpse a large, colorful crowd, a murmurous buzz rising from it.

"Mommy…" Philomel tugs at my skirt. Her face is anxious, her eyes wide. _What's going to happen to us? _she signs.

I smile down at her. _Don't be afraid. _I tug Dogwood nearer too. _Don't either of you be afraid._

I take their hands and squeeze them. They squeeze back, and I am not afraid.

"Bring them in!" calls the muffled voice of the High King of Faerie. The doors swing open, and we prisoners are all marched in, escorted by the guards.

Inside, Birch hisses in surprise, and even Madoc checks, startled. Dulcamara was right. It's not just any crowd of spectators in there—it's the full cast of Faerie's reigning royalty. Monarchs and representatives from every Court of Faerie. I even spot a few mortals in the crowd, like the nervous-looking boy standing next to a young king with curling horns. And yes, I can see King Roiben and his consort from the Court of Termites, along with Dulcamara, hovering at his side. She grins and waves at me; I pass on.

Dulcamara is the only one who looks happy. As we're marched along the clear pathway to the throne, a buzz of confusion and annoyance rises: "Who are they?...Why are we here?...What's going on?" More than a few monarchs look distinctly ruffled, fidgeting irritably in their Court clothes, glancing around warily, and muttering angrily, even if they don't dare quite speak aloud. I gather that none of them are here of their own free will: Eldred really _did _snatch them all by magical force. I marvel: this is an extraordinary act, even for the High King—for its rudeness, if nothing else. He must have wanted them here very badly.

He must know. That's the only explanation. Eldred must know everything already.

The guards escort us to the cleared space before Eldred's throne, and we all bow or curtsy. When I straighten, I'm shocked at the figure sitting in the throne: so thin that it seems a stiff breeze would blow him over, hair so faded that it seems to dissolve into nothing at the ends, everything about him worn and washed out and tired. No—_exhausted. _King Eldred looks ready to collapse with ages-old, bone-deep weariness.

Except his eyes. In his eyes there blazes one last fire, one last spark. I can only hope that it's not going to burn us all up.

Around us, the hall fall dead silent, all the monarchs quiet. We prisoners stand with our eyes on the floor, waiting for Eldred to speak.

"I have summoned you." Eldred's voice is as tired as the rest of him, but in it remains one last strand of energy, of grim determination. That one strand's power casts an even deeper stillness over us all. "I have summoned you all to discuss the matter of the succession."

At this an interested murmur runs through the hall. Balekin twitches, like an eager hound. Eldred's eyes flick over him impassively.

"But there are other matters to be discussed first." Eldred pauses to cough. "My son, Prince Dain…is dead." Here his voice slips and catches, before steadying again. "He was found on the beach, half-eaten by sea creatures. I do not believe his death was an accident." Again his eyes flick over Balekin, and over Madoc. "And then there is the matter of the Lost Heir."

Philomel clings even closer to me, a whimper escaping. Another whisper runs through the hall, abruptly silenced when Eldred glares around.

He leans forward in his throne. "Grand General Madoc," he says. "Step forward."

Silently, Madoc steps forward, alone before the throne. Eldred runs a jaundiced eye over him. His mouth works.

Then he cranes over. "Well, Chieftainess Heartwood?" he says. "Is this the man who has been hiding my own granddaughter from me?"

My stomach jerks as Heartwood steps up, right beside the throne. For once she's not smoking her eternal pipe, but her gaze is as calm and breezy as ever as she looks Madoc over. "It is indeed, my King."

Madoc jerks back, and I feel a leap of foolish delight: really, it was almost worth it, all of it, just to see this look on Madoc's face. "You—!"

"Oh, come now, General." Heartwood rolls her eyes. "Did you really think I would commit treason against the High King of Faerie? I was sworn to him before ever I set foot in your house. He sent me as a spy."

Birch gasps, and Jude gives a strangled exclamation. Oriana and Heather both blink and stare. Vivienne, however, seems to be fighting down laughter, and Cardan is openly grinning. He glances at Madoc and snickers.

"She reported to me all that you did," Eldred tells Madoc. "All that has taken place in your house over the last few weeks. You _have _been busy, haven't you?" He barks a laugh that turns into a long, hacking cough. "Did you think I am an idiot, General?" he demands when he recovers. "I am _old_, not stupid. And this matter concerns me greatly."

Eldred's eyes travel over to me and the children, and I clutch them tighter. "Philomel," he says. "Step forward."

Philomel clings tight to me. It takes all my strength, but I give her a tiny nudge. She stumbles forward, and I half-reach for her. My heart thunders in my chest, and Dogwood holds tight to my arm.

Eldred inspects my daughter, and on his face is an expression almost of affection. "You are the Lost Heir," he informs her. "Born of my blood, an heir to the High Throne of Faerie. Do you know which of my sons fathered you?"

"Yes." It comes out as a tiny whisper.

"Which one was it?"

"It was me, Father." Another murmur runs through the hall as Balekin steps forward, head high and proud. "I lay with Taryn Duarte seven years ago," he announces, voice loud and clear. "I fathered her child, blessed of the unicorn. And we are married now."

Another exclamation, voices ringing through the chamber. Oriana gasps and Madoc jerks back, eyes blazing. "What!"

"We are married." Balekin's salt-scarred face is smug and defiant. "Taryn Duarte, blessed of the unicorn, is my wife." He faces his father, eyes burning. "I am a worthy successor, Father. I fathered the Lost Heir. I am favored of the unicorn, and married to a woman she blessed!"

"He forced her!" Jude's voice rings out. Cardan pulls back at her, looking alarmed, as she half-lunges forward. She points at Balekin with a shaking finger. "He forced my sister to marry him! And he forced _himself_ on her, seven years ago. Yes," she shouts savagely as the noise level rises again. "Prince Balekin raped my sister!"

It's not just a murmur this time: it's a clamor. Faeries all over the hall yell and cry out and buzz their wings, exclaiming over this extraordinary statement. Both my children whimper and press close, not entirely understanding Jude's statement, but perceiving the seriousness of this accusation.

I hold them, but I can't take my eyes off Balekin. His face flushes beneath his scars.

"All mortals are liars," he sneers. "And you can't deny that Taryn is now my wife!"

"It is no true marriage!" Now Birch springs forward, crest raised, flashing blue spots. "Balekin threatened the life of her son! Of _my _son!"

Dogwood jerks and gasps against me; I hold him and Philomel both to my side, holding my breath as Birch faces the High King defiantly. "Prince Balekin threatened to kill my son, Dogwood, if Albia—if Taryn didn't marry him. Balekin wants Philomel and he wants the crown. But if you give it to him, you'll be putting a rapist and a murderer on the throne of Faerie!"

"I am favored of the unicorn!" Balekin yells. "She brought _my _child to life!"

"Oh, really, brother?" Cardan speaks now, cold and sneering. "If you're so favored, why did the unicorn hide Taryn away from you? Why did she take Taryn away from Court? Why did Taryn stay away so long, hiding the Lost Heir?" Cardan laughs contemptuously. "The unicorn didn't bless you. She blessed Taryn for the wrong you did her."

"Yes!" Oriana steps forward. "It is Taryn who is favored, not you!"

"Even if that's true," Balekin counters, "we are married now, and have a child." He gives Philomel a covetous look. "The Lost Heir."

"I'm not yours!" Philomel pipes up from my side. She hugs me hard. "I'm my Mommy's. I won't have you, I _won't_!"

A muscle works in Balekin's jaw, and I catch my breath in fear for my brave little girl. But it's me Balekin turns to, eyes burning.

"Well, my lady wife?" he says in soft tones. "You're the only other person who was there at the time when I lay with you. Did I rape you?"

He's counting on his curses still working. If they were, I wouldn't be able to tell the truth. The second curse might even have forced me to shake my head, lie, deny it. And then my family could shout the truth to the rooftops, but Balekin would say that they weren't there, that he's married to me, and that Philomel is his child. He'd press his case forward, and no one would be able to stop him.

All eyes turn to me. The whole audience chamber turns to me, from Eldred to Birch to Philomel, everyone staring, waiting. A slow smirk grows on Balekin's face as the silence grows.

I draw breath. I move my tongue. And I speak.

"Yes."

The room explodes in cries, shouts and exclamations. But I have eyes only for Balekin. He recoils, gaping at me in utter astonishment, surprise and disbelief writ large on his scarred face, and I grin in savage satisfaction. My family is gaping too, hardly less surprised than Balekin, but Prince Cardan laughs aloud, delighted and triumphant, and even Heather, who has wisely kept silent so far, is grinning from ear to ear.

"Taryn…You…How…?" Balekin is sputtering, and I let out a laugh. Yes, I _laugh_, I laugh aloud, my voice ringing high and free.

"You raped me," I say, my voice growling from my throat, hard and loud and _real_. "Seven years ago, when I was only seventeen. You raped me, and you stole away my voice, and sealed the truth inside me so I could never tell of your crime. But I stitched the truth into a tapestry and my sisters found it, and so my family learned of what you did to me. And now my children have set me free." I lay my hands on my children's shoulders as we stand together, proud and defiant.

"We broke your spells!" Dogwood shouts at Balekin. "We broke your stupid curses!"

"Yeah!" Philomel screams, hair glowing. "We did it together. Mommy's free now!"

Balekin's face transforms in a snarl. He lunges, hands clawing at my children. They squeak, and I jerk them back. The guards leap forward, but Madoc is there first. He shoves Balekin back, snarling. "You don't touch them, swine."

Balekin's fist flies toward Madoc's face. Madoc blocks the blow and aims a kick. Yells ring out, Eldred stands, and suddenly Balekin and Madoc are standing on opposite ends of the dais, both panting and glaring bloody murder, but held apart by the force of the High King's will.

"Enough!" Eldred's voice cracks across the hall, bringing silence in its wake. He turns to me. "Lady Taryn, this is a very serious accusation."

"It's true," I say, and cough. My vocal cords, unused for so long, are growing tired already. "Balekin raped me. And he did more. He killed Prince Dain. His own brother."

Gasps, shouts. Eldred's face is a thundercloud as he turns slowly to Balekin.

"Well, Balekin?" he says in a deadly whisper. "What do you have to say to this?"

Balekin straightens. "I say that all mortals are liars," he says, with a sneer at me. "And you don't have any proof."

I cough. "Oh, don't I?" I take the wire's speaker from my pocket. Calmly, I press the play button, and turn the volume up as high as it will go.

"_How dare you?_" rings Balekin's voice from the human audio equipment. "_How dare you hide my own child from me? My heir! A Greenbriar! A daughter of the High Throne of Faerie? How dare you, you miserable little mortal?_"

More gasps ring out, but then silence spreads as the recording plays on. The whole hall stands absolutely still, listening spellbound: listening to every one of Balekin's words from last night. His confession to rape, his open avarice of the crown, his implication that he murdered Dain, his threatening Dogwood's life. His threats to make me marry him. The whole hall listens agape, and the blood slowly drains from Balekin's face, paler with every word.

At last the recording ends. I press the stop button, and silence, thick and choked, once again descends.

Eldred breaks it first. He turns to Heartwood. "You were right, Chieftainess," he says. "She did indeed bring the truth to light." He gives a strange little chuckle.

"What!" Vivienne gapes at Heartwood. "You—you _told _him?"

"Of course I did," Heartwood says. "I was his spy, remember? So were the twins. We told the King all that we knew of your plan."

Jude raises an eyebrow. "Then surely you told the King that Philomel was the Lost Heir?"

"Of course." Heartwood inclines her head, and Philomel lets out a tiny squeak of protest and betrayal. I lay a hand on her back.

"Then, my King," says Jude, turning to Eldred respectfully, "may I ask why you did not act on this information? Why didn't you take custody of Philomel?"

"Because," Eldred says softly, "if I had, I would never have learned the truth. Which of my sons fathered the girl? And under what circumstances? Heartwood could not tell me that. And I wished to know the full truth, before I was forced to leave my throne to a either bloodthirsty killer, a fawning flatterer or a drunken wastrel." He gives his two surviving sons a sour and unloving look. "And now the truth has come to light, at last."

Eldred turns his glare on Balekin, who still does not move.

"You confessed to rape last night," the King says softly. "I also believe that you murdered Dain, your own brother. What do you have to say to this, Prince Balekin Greenbriar?"

Now Balekin moves. He coils like a striking snake. "I say Taryn Duarte is still my wife," he hisses. "She spoke the words, she made the vows. And now no one can come between us."

He's right. We are in Faerie, and a promise, especially a promise like this, is sacred. My vows to Balekin might have been made under duress, but they _were_ made. And even Eldred can't undo them.

Birch gives me an anguished, helpless look. And in his eyes are all the things he never said, that we both wish he said, years ago.

"This is true," King Eldred says at last. His eyes flick to me. "And so," he says at last, so softly, "Lady Taryn Greenbriar shall pronounce your sentence, Balekin."

Balekin blinks. "What?"

"You heard." Eldred turns to me fully. "Lady Taryn Greenbriar, wife of Prince Balekin, your husband has confessed to rape, to kidnap, to threatening the life of an innocent child, one of my subjects. I also believe that he murdered my son Prince Dain. He is your husband, and none can come between you. So you shall pronounce his sentence, and you shall carry it out."

I stare at Eldred. Then, slowly, I turn to Balekin.

There he stands: my rapist and my tormentor and my enemy. Bewildered and astonished and afraid, his face scarred with my poisons. Stripped of favor, abandoned by his friends, bereft of his wits. Truly, he has lost everything. Perhaps the sight should inspire pity in me. Perhaps it does.

A small nudge at my side, and Philomel glares at Balekin with his mother's eyes. "Do it, Mommy," she whispers harshly. "He deserves it."

"Let's be free!" Dogwood agrees, crest raised. "Let's be free of him."

"Yes." A hand lands softly on my shoulder, and I turn to meet Birch's eyes. "Let's be free."

Birch gives me his old smile: full of gentleness and love. My children look at me, fierce and determined and pleading. They want this. They want to be free. And so do I.

I look at Balekin for one final moment more. Then I speak, loud and clear.

"Manticore!" I cry out, voice ringing in the silent hall. "I saved your life, though you took my friend from me. Now I call in your debt. I call you in my trueborn voice. Come to me!"

The last echoes of my shout die away, and for a sick moment I think nothing will happen. Then the tunnel appears.

An endless corridor, materializing in the wall behind Eldred's throne, stretching through reality into a shadowed infinity. Faeries cry out, shrinking away, wings flapping, and Jude reaches for a sword she isn't wearing as an eager roar echoes down the corridor. The roar of the manticore.

"What have you done?" Balekin rounds on me. His voice is angry, but his face is as white as milk. "_What have you done_?"

I look at him, unsmiling and unafraid. "You're going to get your wish, Balekin," I say, voice rough with contempt, as the soft footfalls of the manticore grow louder and nearer. "You're going to fight a manticore."

And Birch laughs aloud, glad and triumphant, as the manticore steps out of the corridor and into the audience hall.

Faeries scream, flying for the windows or running for the exits, as she paces into the chamber, each huge paw fringed with claws. Here she seems even larger than in the forest, her muscles rippling under her savage red hide, her scorpion tail twitching with eagerness. Her red-gold eyes play over the crowd, beautiful and terrible.

She walks over to me, and faeries clear the way, screaming, shrinking. Only my children remain at my side, as unafraid as I am, as the manticore stops before me and bows, human-lion face to the floor.

_I am here, _she says in that wordless way, and I know that everyone in the hall can hear and understand her. _What is your will?_

"Kill Prince Balekin Greenbriar," I say. "Kill him and eat him."

The manticore's eyes flash. She growls in acknowledgement. Then she straightens and turns to Balekin, eyes lighting, tail tensed, ready to spring.

For a split-second, Balekin just stares. On his face is an expression of utter horror and incredulity. But then he moves—he springs—as the manticore lunges. She lets out a growl of frustration as her paws close on nothing, and Balekin rolls smoothly to his feet. He tackles a nearby guard, snatching his sword away. He whirls around and holds the weapon ready, turning to face the manticore.

The manticore snarls. She circles Balekin, searching for a weakness, but Balekin stands firm, sword in hand. She lunges, and the sword strikes down, drawing a line of blood on her hide. The manticore recoils in pain, and Balekin lets out a triumphant shout.

Philomel catches her breath in sudden worry. "What if he kills the manticore?" she whispers to me.

"He won't." Oriana steps up now, eyes burning on the fight. "Look."

And we look, Philomel and I, and Oriana too, and we three unicorn-blessed women can see what no one else can: a network of shining white threads, strung between Balekin's legs, like lace, like a spiderweb—

Balekin—trips. The glowing white lace trips his legs up, and he stumbles and he falls, and the sword clatters away, and the manticore lunges and down her stinger comes, burying deep in his flesh.

A choked, horrible noise comes out of Balekin's mouth. A trickle of froth. His limbs go rigid. The manticore growls, driving her stinger deeper, claws into his flesh, and he gives that awful noise again.

Then somehow Balekin manages to turn his head, and he looks at me. His dying eyes find mine, and in them is a world of pain, a world of sheer astonishment—

And then his eyes darken and his face stiffens and my enemy is gone.

I let out my breath in a long, long sigh. I close my eyes as the huge weight—the hideous burden—at last lifts from my shoulders. I feel like I could fly—and weep. I let out a sob, and I don't know if it's a sob of relief or of profound loss, for what was such an important part of me for so long. An evil part of me, a part of me that I hated—but a part of me nonetheless.

When I open my eyes again, the manticore has Balekin dangling from her mouth, just like Thistleweft. Her jaws crush his ribcage, hideously, and his arms and legs brush the floor as she nods to me one last time. I nod back.

Then, pacing slowly, through the cleared space that no faerie king or queen dares to enter, the manticore carries her prey back down the tunnel to the forest, to eat at leisure. And the tunnel contracts and seals behind her, leaving the audience chamber whole and unbroken.

I stare at the place where the manticore disappeared, one moment longer. Then, slowly, I turn to Eldred.

He seems more shrunken than ever in his throne. In his eyes is a terrible sorrow, but also a terrible acceptance. His eyes shimmer with tears, but he nods to me. "Lady Taryn," he says quietly. "That was well and justly done."

I curtsy and say nothing. What can I say to the father of my rapist, who I've just killed before his eyes? I put my arms around my children's shoulders, holding them close.

"Indeed it was." Madoc steps forward, gaze bright. "That was true justice, my King." He bows to Eldred. "Though I am sorry for your loss."

"No real loss," Eldred says dryly. "My son was evil."

"True," says Madoc. "And I would say that mere death does not entirely erase the wrong he did my daughter or my family." His eyes flick to me and Philomel, and my stomach clenches in sudden apprehension. "My King…perhaps you could name Princess Philomel your successor? She is unicorn-blessed, of extraordinary power. She would be a worthy heir to the High Throne."

Philomel gasps, recoiling against me. I feel like I've been punched in the gut. I gape at Madoc, who stares blandly back. Of course. Of course. He promised that _he _wouldn't put Philomel on the throne, or make himself Regent. He never said anything about not asking Eldred to do it for him.

The bastard. The conniving, selfish, hypocritical bastard!

Around me, my family jerks back and recoils—except Jude, who looks torn between hope and horror. Eldred, meanwhile, is entirely impassive.

"I see," he says. "And who would be Regent, during her minority?"

"That is up to you, my King," Madoc says.

"Indeed." Eldred leans forward, and in his eyes, suddenly, is the light of the manticore.

"Grand General Madoc," the High King hisses, and Madoc falters back, "do you think I am an idiot? I know perfectly well what you've been planning over the last few weeks. You wanted to put your granddaughter on the throne and make yourself Regent!" His voice cracks across the dead-silent hall. "You want to seize the crown for yourself, in all but name. You want my family's legacy—the heart of Faerie itself—to serve your own personal ambition. And what is more…" A terrible smile appears on Eldred's face. "You've broken a promise," he whispers. "I can see it in your aura. A sworn vow, to your daughter, Dowager Lady Taryn Greenbriar."

Madoc blenches. He twitches, gaze darting to me. It's true, I realize. I remember now: Madoc swore he would kill Balekin and feed me his heart. And he didn't do it. It doesn't matter, by the laws of Faerie, that it wasn't his fault he broke it. He broke his word to me. It's that final.

"Dowager Lady Taryn," says Eldred, "you must pronounce sentence again. You must decide the Grand General's fate. That is the law."

A murmur rustles through the hall, through the royal crowd. Oriana takes half a step forward but then steps back, head bowed. She knows this is fair, that this is the law. Cardan's face is impassive. Vivienne can't hide her growing grin, the elated triumph in her eyes.

But Jude…Jude makes a tiny noise of protest, half a motion to come forward, to stop this. She gives me an anguished look, gives Madoc an anguished look, but says nothing. There's nothing she can say, or do.

I look at Madoc. He looks back. Fear momentarily skitters behind his eyes, but it's soon suppressed. He stands tall, proud, ready to face his fate. For he is mine now: he broke his word to me and, by the laws of Faerie, I can do whatever I want with him.

I stare at him: my stepfather. The faerie who murdered my parents before my eyes, who kidnapped me and my sisters, taking us to a world where we didn't belong, all for the sake of his so-called honor. Who left us to the mercy of the bullies at Court, probably telling himself that it would be good for us. Who pressed a knife into my hands and turned me into a nine-year-old murderer. Who thrust me at Balekin for the sake of his own greed and ambition. Who kidnapped me and my children _again_, never once asking us, or even asking himself, whether this was truly the best thing for us. Who saw my love for Birch and used it as a weapon against me and my children. Whose first reaction, on learning who Philomel was, was to make a personal grab for power. Who, even after he promised that he would not, still tried to find a way to snatch the throne.

By all rights, I should kill him. I should avenge myself on this monster for all his crimes against me, against my parents, against Birch, against my children. It's what Madoc himself would do. It's what his unbending honor code would demand.

But that is not my code. It never was. And I am tired of Madoc forcing me to do things I don't want to do.

"I'm not going to kill you, Madoc," I say quietly. My voice rings out in the dead-silent hall. "If I killed you…I'd never be rid of you. I'd be dragging you around my whole life. And I deserve better than that. I deserve better than you. And so do my children."

He flinches: just a tiny twitch, but it's there. "I love you, Taryn," he says, and his voice is almost pleading.

"I don't want your love!" It bursts out, loud, uncontrollable. "Your _love_ has brought me nothing but death and misery and ruin!" I bring my voice down with an effort. "You may love me, Madoc, but you're completely selfish and you always were. You think of nothing but yourself: _your _love, _your _honor, _your_ guilt, _your _duty, _your _ambitions. You have never thought of what anyone else needs or wants or wishes, not even those you love. And I'm not going to waste any more of my life, or my children's lives, in the hopes that one day you'll miraculously change. Because you never will, Madoc. Or if you do, it won't be because of anything _I _did."

By now everyone is gaping at me, even Jude. Heather mouths silently, and Vivienne is grinning from ear to ear, eyes aglow. Beside me, Birch cackles triumphantly, and the children look at me admiringly. Even Oriana is fighting down a grin—even Cardan is—at seeing Madoc finally, _finally _told off. Finally being confronted with the truth.

Madoc himself sways back, as though I've just delivered him a blow. But he clenches his jaw, he regains control, and he straightens.

"What, then, do you want of me?" he demands, cold and clear.

I glare at him with equal coldness. "I want you out of my life," I say, each word precise and crisp. "I want you out of my children's lives. I want to never see you again, never speak to you. You will make no move, say no word, to either harm or help us. You will not look for loopholes. You will not ask anyone else, faerie or mortal, to interfere in our lives. You will not seek to punish us or aid us. You will take no action that has any bearing on our lives, in any way. You will have _nothing _to do with any of us again, ever. From the moment we leave this hall, we have nothing to do with each other." I pause. "Do you understand, General Madoc?"

Madoc's face blenches again, and I suddenly realize that, for the Grand General, this is much worse than simply dying, than simply being killed. Madoc has always been obsessed with winning: and now he is being told, in front of every monarch in Faerie, in front of the High King himself, that he has _lost_. That he is not good enough. That he has failed. And this from the daughter he always accounted as the least of his children, the weakest.

For a moment Madoc stands, statue-still. Then he bends his head. He bends his head to me. "Very well," he says quietly. "I shall do as you say, Dowager Lady Taryn Greenbriar. For the rest of your life, and your children's lives, all shall be between us as you desire."

Something deep inside me breaks painfully, a trickle of loss and sorrow. But that is overwhelmed by the flood of joy and relief. Free. I am free of Madoc at last, and so are my children. I grin down at Dogwood and Philomel, and they grin back, as delighted as I am.

"Well done, Lady Taryn," Eldred says. His eyes gleam, and I know that he too has enjoyed watching the Grand General humbled. "But there is one last sentence to be spoken."

He holds himself straight, and he addresses me. "Dowager Lady Taryn Greenbriar," he says, "you hid away an heir to the High Throne of Faerie for seven years. This could be considered treason."

My heart clenches. Cold sweat breaks out. Philomel rushes forward.

"No!" she cries out to her grandfather. "That's not fair! She was keeping me safe."

"Yes, Father." Cardan steps forward too. "Taryn kept the Lost Heir safe and hidden from her enemies. There can be no treason in that. And Taryn was besides acting under the instruction of the unicorn, who carried her away from Court and to the Red Branch valley. She could not have done other than obey."

"True," says Eldred. "I accept that you had mitigating circumstances, Lady Taryn, and acted for the best. You are pardoned of any accusation of treason." I let out my breath in a long sigh, weak with relief, and I give a slightly wobbly curtsy.

Then Eldred's eyes play onto the frozen Madoc. "You, on the other hand," he says softly, "abducted and hid away the Lost Heir for purely selfish reasons. You attempted to seize the power of the throne for yourself. You interfered in the succession. You, Grand General Madoc, are guilty of attempted treason."

We all stand frozen. I hold my breath. After avoiding killing my stepfather, am I going to have to watch him die after all?

Madoc says nothing. He stands tall and proud, unbroken yet and waiting for his sentence.

"Grand General Madoc," Eldred pronounces at last, "I sentence you to exile on the Ironside. There you will remain, and never set foot in Faerie again, until you have saved the life of a good woman justly accused of her crime, and taken her and her children to safety and happiness. Only when you have accomplished this may you return to Faerie."

Madoc blinks. I can see his mind whirling with confusion, with questions. But he knows better than to ask them: solving the riddle is part of his sentence. He bows. "Yes, my King."

I feel a stab of—something. Sorrow, paired with overpowering relief. I look at my family, and I see the same sorrow and relief on Jude and Oriana's faces. Cardan, on the other hand, looks appreciative, Heather amused, and Vivienne's face is alight with glee.

Eldred nods. He seems more tired than ever, the day's events rapidly sucking what little energy he has left. But his face is determined: there's still more to do.

He stands up. He stands up from the throne. And before the entire audience, he takes off his crown.

Gasps ring out. By rising from his throne, by taking off his crown in public, Eldred has just abdicated his kingship. He is ready to pass it on to his successor, and he is ready to do it now.

"Princess Philomel," he says. "Step forward."

My blood turns yet again to ice. The room spins around me.

No. No. This can't happen, not now, after all we've been through, all we've done. Eldred can't do this.

But he can. And Philomel steps up, hair glowing like the unicorn's mane through my shaking vision, and her grandfather hands her the crown of Faerie.

"I leave the fate of the crown in the hands of the Lost Heir," says Eldred, King no more. Already he is fading, his flesh and hair slowly disintegrating, glowing particles flying off. "Choose wisely, granddaughter."

And then he is gone, and in Eldred's place is nothing but empty air, and an echo of laughter.

Absolute stillness reigns in the hall. We all stand like statues, staring at Philomel, as she holds the crown in her little hands, jewels winking in the light.

Then Philomel moves. She trots over, crown still gleaming in her hands, to stand before Cardan.

"Kneel down, Uncle Cardan," she says, little-girl voice high and piping.

Cardan eyes her like she's a snake that might strike. "Now, Melly," he says, not entirely hiding the sudden panic in his voice, "perhaps you should think this over before making a decision. The King did tell you to choose wisely."

"I am choosing wisely," she says, honest and innocent. "I think you'll be a good King. You're a good person."

Cardan gapes at her. No one has ever, ever told him that he is a good person.

"She's right, you know," says Jude, a half-grin growing on her face. "You _are _a good person. And you'll be a good High King."

"I am _not_ a good person," Cardan says with great dignity. "As you ought to know, Jude, better than anyone."

Jude's smile fades. "You're both good and bad," she says gently. "Like the rest of us, mortal and faerie alike. But I think the good in you will win out over the bad, more often than not, and you will be a good High King of Faerie. I believe in you, Cardan."

Cardan looks at his lover. And what he sees there makes him straighten, shoulders going back. He gives a strange half-smile.

And he kneels before Philomel, and she places the crown upon his head.

For a moment, silence reigns still as the crown gleams among Cardan's black curls. Then Jude kneels down.

"All hail the High King of Faerie!" she cries, loud and strong. "All hail King Cardan!"

"All hail King Cardan!" Everyone echoes her cry, even Madoc, even Heartwood, even me, and we all bow low to our new High King.

Slowly, King Cardan turns to face us. His crown gleams, the light of its majesty glowing bright already. Glowing around him, the new High King of Faerie.

"Well," he says at last. "_This _coronation is certainly going to go down in the history books!"

Laughter rings: bright, relieved laughter, that the spell has been broken. Philomel runs to me, and I gather her into my arms. We cuddle, both of us limp with relief. I almost let go of her to sign, before remembering that I don't have to. "Well done, Melly," I whisper instead.

She beams at me. "That was good, wasn't it? Uncle Cardan will be a good King, and I don't ever have to be Queen?"

"No." I hug her tight. "Never."

Jude, meanwhile, is shaking her head, smiling as she gazes on her King. "One for the history books? Honestly, Cardan. You are as annoying as ever."

"Did you truly think that would change, Jude?" grins Cardan. He sits down on the throne like he's been King for years. "Someone summon the palace steward," he orders. "I think, after the events of today, that we all deserve a feast." He turns suddenly to Heather. "Heather, perhaps you could stay a bit longer, until after the feast? And then maybe you'd like to sample the delights of the High Court, before you go home? After all, you have served the throne well, in your way. You should have a reward of some kind."

Heather shakes her head, hooking her arm around Vivienne's. "That sounds nice, Your Majesty, but I think I should go home after your feast. I've already been away too long."

"Me too," says Vivienne, and she and Heather give each other glowing looks.

Now Madoc steps forward, and I edge back, the children with me. Birch steps closer to us, crest rising. But Madoc ignores us. "My King." He bows deeply to Cardan. "Perhaps, as your first official act, you could commute your late father's sentence on me?"

Cardan looks at him amusedly. "You never give up, General, do you?"

"I took you in when no one else would, Your Majesty," Madoc grinds out quietly.

"It was Jude who took me in." Cardan grins wickedly. "And frankly, Madoc, I think this little quest will be very good for you."

Madoc's jaw works before he bursts out, "But what does it _mean_? A good woman justly accused of her crime?"

I find myself exchanging secret glances with my sisters. Any one of us, the daughters of Eva, could tell Madoc exactly what the riddle meant.

But somehow, I don't think any of us will. Not even Jude.

"That's for you to figure out," says King Cardan. "Off you go to the Ironside, Grand General, and you will not return until you have achieved the quest that King Eldred laid down for you."

Madoc remains a moment, face working with frustration. Then he bows to Cardan. "Very well, my King." His gaze sweeps over Oriana, over the children, over my sisters. Over me. "Will I see my family again?" he asks Cardan, softly.

"I won't forbid them to come see you," Cardan says, equally quietly. "But that's up to them."

Madoc is silent a moment more. "Very well, my King." He bows again, and then turns to us. To me.

"I love you, Taryn," he says quietly. In his eyes in an emotion undefinable but powerful. "Whatever I've done, whatever you think of me, I love you as my daughter, and I always will."

I nod. "I know you do," I say, and my restored voice sounds stranger than ever in my throat, in my ears. "I know you will."

Unspoken between us are the words, _But that's not enough._

Madoc hears the words. He understands. His eyes turn sorrowful as he nods to me. Then he looks at Oriana, and for a moment I wonder if he will beg his wife to accompany him into exile, not to leave him alone. But he stands rigid, jaw clenched with that stubborn pride.

Madoc walks away, heading stiffly for the door. The crowd parts to let him go.

Vivienne watches her father go, eyes agleam with delighted malice. "Have fun on the Ironside, Dad!" she sings as he passes her. His fists clench, but he doesn't stop. He walks out of the audience chamber, alone, through the crowd of murmuring royal faeries, and out of the room and out of my life forever.

I let out a long, long breath. At my side, Dogwood lets out a happy squeal.

"Gone!" he cries. "He's gone! Finally!"

Laughter rings in the hall again. Even Jude, standing beside Cardan's throne, half-smiles.

"Indeed he is," says Cardan to my son, and then the King turns to me. "Lady Taryn, you and your children are of course invited to tonight's feast. And then I think you'd better head over to Hollow Hall."

I blink, and sign, _What?_ Then remember, and say aloud, "I beg your pardon, my King?"

"Well," says Cardan, eyes agleam, "you're Prince Balekin's widow. All his wealth and estates naturally go to you. And frankly," he adds cheerfully, "you're going to have quite a mess on your hands. Balekin didn't manage his wealth all that well."

My head reels. All of Balekin's badly managed estates—all mine. Great Trees. Where do I even _begin_?

Oriana steps up. "I will be there to help." She smiles at me, and I smile back, slightly reassured.

"Me too." Birch appears at my side.

"We'll be there!" Dogwood holds hard to my hand.

"Yeah!" Philomel grins up at me.

I look at them all: my family. The people I love, and who love me. And I curtsy Cardan. "Very well, my King."

Behind the throne, Heartwood has taken out her pipe again, and lit up. Smoke coils lazily around her head as she nods to me. I nod back. Well played, Chieftainess, right from the start. I find myself wondering if she expects me and the kids to return to the valley at any point. I wonder if we'll be able to.

Maybe not. Maybe there is no going back, no making yourself into what you once were.

But, for the first time in my life, I have a future. My children have a future. My children and I are safe and free, and, though there will be challenges ahead, we can face them together.

A tiny movement catches my eye: a flash of white. I crane over, peering through the crowd of royal faeries, and so I see her.

The unicorn. Standing in the shadows, the unicorn, hidden from everyone's view but mine. And—Oriana gasps and I feel Philomel stiffen beside me—the other two unicorn-blessed women in this room. We three can see her, when no one else can.

The unicorn bows her head to us, whorled horn shining. I curtsy back, and so do Oriana and Philomel. We all straighten, and regard one another: the unicorn, and the three women she has blessed.

Then the unicorn is gone. She vanishes in a faint white gleam, and I know I will not see her again, not in this life. But I feel no sorrow at this, for she is still my friend, and always will be.

Together, I turn with my mother and my daughter, to face the new day, the new reign, and our new lives.


	25. Chapter 25: Love

Love

"Come on, Oriana!" Philomel tugs Oriana toward the shore of the pond, hair shining white in the sunlight.

"Yeah, come on!" Dogwood yanks her other arm.

Oriana, clad in nothing but a shift, moves stiffly and reluctantly, stumbling down the slope. "Now, children, Bettina's already in the pond. Shouldn't we find someplace where a nixie doesn't already live—?"

"You're not getting out of it that easily," cackles Bettina from the water. "In you get, and I promise I won't drown you." She bares her fangs at my stepmother. The sight doesn't seem to reassure her.

Seated on the picnic blanket, I can't stop myself laughing as my children drag Oriana into the water. Oriana can face down royal princes, survive marriage to a wife-killer, weave spells that control fate itself, but she can't swim. Who knew?

Oriana splashes into the water and yelps. Alder and Elder, seated in a nearby tree, both yell with laughter. "Come on, Oriana! You can do it!"

Oriana wades in gingerly up to her knees as the children happily splash into deeper water. Bettina coaxes her deeper, and finally Oriana lunges forward with a splash and another yelp.

We all burst into applause: me, Birch, Vivienne, Heather, Heartwood, Jude and Cardan, all seated on the blanket. "Good job!" I call out, my voice ringing strong and steady. "Good job, Oriana!"

Cardan pops a grape into his mouth. "Are you enjoying having your voice back, Taryn?"

I beam at him. "Very much so, Your Majesty."

"Call me Cardan." He rolls over, head in Jude's lap. "At least for this picnic."

"Yes." Jude swats his hair good-naturedly. "Don't let him get too much of a swelled head."

"You're the one in danger of that," Cardan says. "The High King's official Seneschal and consort!"

"Well, what about Taryn?" Heather helps herself to some buttered bread. She and Vivienne have returned to Faerie for a quick visit, just for this afternoon. "Everyone I've talked to is calling her Unicorn-Blessed and Manticore-Favored and Lady Healer and talking about how she saved all of Faerie and they've got all their human poets writing ballads about her."

I shift uncomfortably. "I just did what I had to do."

"Well, don't let it go to your head," Vivi winks.

"I won't," I say. "I'm too busy with the kids, and getting Balekin's inheritance in order." I sigh: Cardan wasn't kidding when he said I was inheriting an unholy mess, starting with Hollow Hall itself. The moment Balekin died, all his human slaves woke up from their enchantments. When the children, Birch and I arrived at the Hall that afternoon, we found ourselves facing a horde of angry, confused and frightened mortals, all either shouting questions or lying collapsed in corners, holding their heads and moaning.

I had the faerie stewards gather all the freed mortals into the hall, where I addressed them from the staircase, telling them that their captor was dead and they were free. I promised to send them all safely home by the end of the day, each with compensation for their years of toil. I also offered to have their memories of their enslavement erased, if they so chose.

Many of them chose that option, for which I do not blame them. Others chose not to, on the basis that they did not want more faeries playing games with their minds. I don't blame them, either.

I had the stewards ransack the cellar vault, ordering them to give the captives each a sack of gold—real gold, not faerie-glamoured stuff that will disappear, or any other faerie tricks. A Court magician erased their memories as requested, and we got them all off to the Ironside by the end of the day, each with valuable compensation. I only hope they manage to get their lives back together, now that they're free.

I then dispatched Balekin's household guard to go join the royal guard at the palace, and set to cleaning out the house, aided by the faerie stewards. They all obeyed me with remarkable compliance. Indeed, I've been impressed with how cooperative Balekin's faerie servants and followers have been, considering that I killed their lord and master. I asked the chief steward, Rhys, about it, and he said, "I fear the old master is not greatly missed."

Rhys is not only efficient and hardworking; he's also very polite. I think that was shorthand for _Everyone who ever worked for Balekin hated his guts and we are still toasting your health for getting rid of him for us._

Fair enough.

It took days to clear out Hollow Hall: even besides his grisly trophies, Balekin collected all sorts of nasty objects, from soul-boxes to cursed blades. The most dangerous artifacts I handed over to Cardan for safekeeping. The rest I had destroyed in a bonfire that blazed and smoked for over twelve hours.

I sent the stewards off to Balekin's—to _my _lands on the mainland, with instructions to investigate and bring me back a full report of their condition and the state of their finances. Then the children and I moved out of Madoc's house, into the cottage that Birch and the other goblins built for us, near this pond on the grounds of Hollow Hall. None of us wanted to stay in the Hall itself. None of us want to even go near the Hall again.

The new cottage is cozy, and suits us perfectly. It even has separate bedrooms for Dogwood and Philomel—one day I might actually get them to sleep there. The courtiers and aristocrats all murmur at Dowager Lady Taryn Greenbriar, the Unicorn-Blessed, the Manticore-Favored, living in such a tiny place. But I learned long ago not to let the opinions of others sway me. I'm happy where I am, the children are happy, and it's easy for my patients to come to me for help. Indeed, every day I've got a line of faeries and humans wanting healing, just like the old days.

Well, maybe not _just_ like the old days. I glance at Birch, now eating a nut. He's avoided getting involved in the bureaucratic mess I've been dealing with, but did help clear out Hollow Hall, grimly dragging all of Balekin's trophies out to burn. We've been friendly to each other, but shy, keeping our conversation confined to practicalities, and he's been staying with the other goblins in the woods. I keep thinking of the cottage he built for me. I keep thinking of the future, and how much I want him to be in it.

But I haven't been able to ask him. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

"You're heading to the mainland soon, aren't you?" Jude says now, shaking me from my reverie.

I nod. "The children and I are going to see all the estates for ourselves." I pause to cough: my voice still gets tired easily. "And we want to visit the valley again."

Heartwood, seated comfortably in the shade smoking her pipe, inclines her head regally. "We'll be happy to have you, of course."

Cardan opens one eye to glare at her pointedly. "I don't remember giving you permission to leave Court, Councilor Heartwood."

"Well, I was just about to ask your permission, my King," Heartwood says, unruffled as ever. "But I think you'll agree that I can't leave the Red Branch tribe forever."

Cardan gives a theatrical sigh, head still comfortably pillowed on Jude's lap. "Honestly, what's the point of giving common faeries a larger voice in government if they just keep dashing back to their homes every few minutes?"

"Oh, don't exaggerate, Cardan," Jude says, tipping her face to the light. "Heartwood's doing great work on the new Council, and so are you, for that matter."

"Flatterer," Cardan says lazily. "Being High King is just as difficult as I expected." He gives another deep, heavy sigh, but honestly doesn't sound too upset. "It's all my father's fault. If he hadn't given Melly that crown, I would still be living the life of a happy wastrel."

"Too bad," says Jude unsympathetically. "You're doing a great job."

"She's right, you know," Heartwood murmurs. "You're quite a good High King, so far."

"Oh, stop, stop." Cardan waves his hands in the air languidly. "The adulation."

Tumultuous splashes and shouts ring out from the sunlit pond. I smile, heart singing inside me, to see both of my wet, happy children having such a good time with their grandmother. They've recovered a lot from our ordeal over the last few weeks, but there hasn't been much laughter or fun. It's so nice seeing them playing normally.

I sigh, drawing my knees up to my chest. Philomel has been quiet over the last few weeks. That first night, after Dogwood had fallen asleep, I asked her outright if Balekin had hurt her in any way, when he told her the truth. "No," she murmured. "He just said he was my father and I was the Lost Heir. And I said he was awful and I wanted my Mommy. And he sort of smiled in this nasty way and said that he'd married you. So then I got mad and threw a spell at him, and he left." Then my daughter snuggled in deeper, cuddling Lulu. She gave a happy sigh. "But he's dead now," she said contentedly. "The manticore killed him. He can't bother us again."

I stroked her hair and said nothing. It's true that Balekin is dead. But that doesn't mean he can't hurt us still. After all, though Philomel is still too young, one day she will understand what Balekin did to me. She will understand that she was born of rape. She will fully understand that her mother killed her father. How is that going to make her feel?

And what of Dogwood? I look at him, splashing around in the water. I'm not sure what his future will be, as the son of the Dowager Lady Greenbriar, but it won't be without its challenges. He may not have to deal with being the Lost Heir, but he does have to deal with being an Echo, both desired and despised. And he has to reforge his relationship with Birch, now that he knows the truth. They've been oddly shy with each other, Dogwood and Birch: Dogwood keeps going quiet, clinging to me whenever Birch shows up, staring at his father with wondering eyes. But yesterday I found them sitting together on my back step, Dogwood watching as Birch sang a piece of wood into a toy horse for him. Perhaps there's hope.

"I'm becoming entirely too hot." Heartwood stands, shaking out her skirts. "I'm going to go take a nap up a tree."

"I'm getting hot too." Heather gets to her feet, brushing off her shorts. "I think I'll take a dip." She ambles down toward the pond as Heartwood scurries into the upper branches of a tree.

"You can't 'take a dip' with a nixie!" Vivienne follows her in great agitation.

"Well, come with me, then…"

"Oh, boy." Cardan rolls over and climbs to his feet. "Come, Jude, we'd better go along too."

"This had better not be some ploy to get me to take my clothes off in public," Jude growls, even as she lets him haul her to feet.

"What an excellent notion, Jude," Cardan says warmly as they head down the slope. "I knew I was right to make you my official Seneschal. You always have such wonderful ideas."

"You perverted faerie creep." Jude holds his hand, shoulder bumping companionably against his, as they walk slowly toward the pond.

Birch, watching them, shakes his head in wonderment. _What a strange couple, _he signs to me.

_Any stranger than you and me? _I sign back, happy that we're talking.

His smile fades as he looks at me with sudden seriousness. _Are we a couple? _he asks.

My heart thuds a little. It takes me a moment to compose my thoughts, glancing down at the weave of the picnic blanket.

_I don't know, _I sign at last. _I'd like to be, but…I'm not ready for a relationship like that. I'm not ready for sex, or living with a man. I might never be ready. I'm sorry, but it's true._

Birch lets out a growl, crest rising. "That evil _prince_," he snarls. "He deserved worse than the manticore."

_Balekin's gone now. _I take a deep breath. _But that doesn't mean I'm completely healed. I might never be completely healed, Birch._

Slowly, gently, Birch places his arm around my shoulders. I stiffen a little, and he freezes. But then I relax into his touch, and there is nothing frightening or threatening about it. This is the touch of a man who loves me, who would never hurt me.

"Albia," he says gently, "I do want a relationship with you. I want to be your lover, and I want to be the father of your children. But I would never force you into anything you don't want to do. And even if you are never ready, I still want to spend your life with you, in whatever capacity you want me to. I want to raise my son and your daughter, at your side. I want to help you heal if I can. Help you become whole." He takes a deep breath. "After Acorn left me, I thought I'd never love another woman. And I didn't—until you." His arm squeezes my shoulders gently. "You are a miracle, Albia, in so many ways. I love you, and I want to stay with you."

I lean into him, feeling his lean length, his strength. "You're a miracle too," I whisper aloud, my voice soft and miraculous on my tongue. "For so long, I thought all faeries were selfish and vicious and evil and cruel, especially the men. You proved me wrong." I reach up to cover his clawed hand with mine. "I want to spend my life with you too, Birch."

We sit together, in each other's embrace, while the party goes on in and around the pond. Oriana finally staggers out of the water, half-laughing, shift clinging to her body. "Enough!" she cries. "That's enough for one day. Are you all right, you two?" she calls up to me and Birch.

"We're fine," Birch calls back.

"Good!" Wringing out her hair, she goes to dry herself off and get dressed again.

Watching Birch and Oriana, a thought occurs to me. Birch and Oriana both promised to kill Madoc if anything happened to me because of his plan—and something did. Balekin kidnapped me and forced me to marry him. Now, by all the laws of Faerie, Birch and Oriana will have to act on their promise, even if it takes them years or centuries. They're going to have to kill Madoc.

I wonder how I feel about this. The last I heard, Madoc was settled on the Ironside, puzzling over his quest. I hope it takes him a thousand years—but even now, I still don't want him to die.

But looking at my stepmother and my love, I find that my chief anxiety concerns _them_. I hope so much that Madoc doesn't hurt or kill them, when they fulfill their vow. Please, oh God, oh Great Trees, let them be safe.

Also, purely selfishly, I hope that they enact their promise only after I myself am dead.

But now Dogwood and Philomel are splashing out of the water, running up the slope, shedding water as they run squealing, and I forget all my fears and anxieties as I behold them. My strong, healthy son, crest larger and more colorful every day, with his rare and amazing gift. My miraculous daughter, hair glowing with the unicorn's blessing. Both of them precious and wonderful and beautiful and mine.

"Mommy!" Philomel launches herself onto me, and I let out a huff of air. "Oh, sorry," she laughs. "But did you see us teaching Oriana to swim?"

"I sure did!" I ruffle her hair. "She'll be swimming like a nixie soon."

"Maybe not like a nixie," Dogwood says thoughtfully. "But she'll swim." He settles on Birch's other side. "Hi, uh, Dad."

"Hello, son." Birch smiles at him and holds up his free arm. After a moment, Dogwood snuggles in.

Philomel cuddles in next to me. "This is good, isn't it?" she says contentedly. "All of us together. Forever and always."

"Forever and always," I agree, hugging her.

"Forever and always," says Dogwood.

"And always and forever," finishes Birch, and we sit, my children and my love and I, watching our family and friends laugh and run and play. Forever and always, together.


	26. Bonus Scene: The Ball

**(Here is the first of the bonus scenes from Jude's point of view, concerning Taryn's disappearance. These aren't full chapters in their own right; just certain select scenes.)**

Following Master Noggle up to the gallery, I glance down at the glittering assemblage of the High Court. I have to admit, they're a magnificent sight from a distance: all the highest nobility of Faerie, in their jewels and their finest garments, turned out at the ball to honor their High King and the New Year.

All so very pretty. My lip curls in a sneer.

I spot dear old Cardan, sulking with his ubiquitous glass of wine in his hand. By great good fortune, he happens to look up, and our eyes meet. I give him my sweetest smile, and a little finger-wave. Even from this distance, I can see him flush with rage, and I let out a laugh I know he can hear. Perfect. Perfect.

"Not very wise, Miss Jude," Noggle says mildly. "Deliberately provoking the prince like that."

"Perhaps not, Master Noggle," I say, "but sometimes I just can't resist."

He gives me a look I can't really interpret, a weird little smile, and murmurs, "I wish you two the very best of fortune."

I frown at him in confusion. "I beg your pardon?"

"Never mind." Still with that weird smile, he leads me on.

Just as we're leaving the gallery, I spot Prince Balekin, cutting through the crowd like a snake, toward Taryn. I turn away and follow Noggle up the stairs to the tower.

The observatory tower is a tall spire open to the sky, with all the heavens arching above it. I feel myself relaxing just being up here: it really is gorgeous. Above us spreads the vast night skies of Faerie, crowded with stars and planets, so close you feel you can pick them like fruit; below us spreads all the Shining Isles of Elfhame, lit with flitting magical lights, soft with darkness, the vast wild ocean stretching out beyond, the lights of the mortal world shining. I find myself smiling as I accompany Noggle to the rail. At moments like these, I remember why I love Faerie so much.

Master Noggle is already craning up at the sky. "What are you looking for, Master Noggle?" I ask.

"Nothing in particular," he says. "The stars have been behaving a bit oddly lately…"

"Like the sign of the birth of a royal heir?"

"Yes." He's digging through his robes. "Here, hold this for me?"

I help hold down the star chart on the table handily provided. "Do you think it could happen? Another Greenbriar born?"

"Anything's possible," he says neutrally. "Though the princes are…And Eldred hasn't had a consort since—" He breaks off abruptly.

My eyes widen at this choice piece of gossip, carelessly dropped. The King has been celibate for a long period of time? I marvel, half in amazement and half in fear: he really _must _be getting old and tired. And if he gets tired enough…if he dies…who inherits? My heart thuds with a mixture of apprehension and excitement.

I push the thought away. Even alone up here with Noggle, it's too dangerous to dwell on. Together, Noggle and I enter stars into the chart, murmuring over our findings.

"Prince Balekin has been paying marked attentions to your sister, Miss Jude," Noggle says suddenly.

I bite down on the surge of irritation and resentment this rouses in me. "Yes, Master Noggle."

He regards me with a benevolent eye. "Well, that would be a good thing for her, and for your family, wouldn't it? The favor of a Greenbriar! Maybe it would make Miss Taryn feel a bit better. She's been awfully quiet lately, and hasn't been to school in so long."

"We'll see." I don't tell him about the conversation I overheard between Oriana and Taryn yesterday: Oriana admonishing her, and Taryn's miserable silences.

I let out my breath in a long, exasperated exhale. I know she's my twin sister and everything, but, honestly, sometimes I just want to smack Taryn! I hate the way she's so silent. How she wanders around like a melodramatic ghost. Who does she think this is helping? Does she think she can forge a future by sighing and staring palely out of windows? It makes me so angry with her. Doesn't she realize that this is exactly what our tormentors want? That she is only making things worse?

Oriana's right: Balekin is Taryn's best chance. She should take it. Madoc taught us to see our opportunities and exploit them; so why can't she exploit this one? There's no dishonor in it, and potentially great profit. And Faerie knows, she's certainly getting plenty of attention from the affair, I think sourly.

But she acts like…like some silent drama queen. I remember when she quit school for good: how she sat there, staring at me with those dead eyes, while I tried explaining to her why this was a bad idea and how she was letting us both down. She didn't say a single word then: just looked at me with the same expression that she looks at the faeries: blank and bleak, without a trace of trust, or hope of kindness or friendship.

When did she start looking at me this way? When did I become the enemy in Taryn's mind?

I let out a long sigh, trying to let go of my irritation. It serves no purpose. My jaw clenches on my old, old resolve. Taryn may bow and break, but I never will. I will never give the faeries that satisfaction. Ever. I will be strong. Stronger than them. I will fight for a future worth having.

And if Taryn doesn't, then that's her lookout.

Several hours later, my neck is aching from craning at the sky, and I'm happy to straighten up and follow Noggle back down the stairs. As we descend, I see that the ballroom is emptying, the musicians packing up.

"I'm sorry I made you miss the ball, Miss Jude," Noggle says.

"That's all right, Master Noggle," I say sincerely. "I enjoyed stargazing with you." I look around, but don't see Cardan or his Court anywhere as we descend the staircase back to the ballroom proper. I feel a pang of disappointment.

"Jude!" It's Oriana, rushing up to me. She looks more agitated than I've ever seen her, shifting from foot to foot, eyes darting around. "Jude, have you seen Taryn anywhere?"

I draw back a little, surprised. "No. I was up in the observatory tower with Master Noggle." I look around. I can see the last few guests, including Madoc and Vivienne, but Taryn is nowhere to be seen. I feel the first twinges of anxiety.

"I've been looking for her everywhere!" Oriana exclaims. "She disappeared midway through the ball. I can't find her!"

"Oriana, calm down." Madoc comes up, patting Oriana on the elbow, though he too looks worried. "We'll find her. She can't have gone far. Unless…" He swings around to stare at Vivi, who looks outraged.

"I didn't take Taryn anywhere, I swear! I haven't seen her since the middle of the ball." She peers around too, as though our sister might suddenly appear out of nowhere. "I don't know where she is!"

"Neither do I," I realize. I think to the last time I saw Taryn: staring into space in that bleak and passive way, while Balekin moved toward her. "Who did she dance with? Maybe we can ask them."

"Prince Balekin," Oriana says immediately. "Last time I saw, she was dancing with Prince Balekin."

"Balekin has already gone home," says Madoc. "We can't disturb him again tonight. I'll go to Hollow Hall to ask him tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?" Oriana exclaims. "You think we won't have found her by then?"

Even in the midst of my rising anxiety, I feel a surge of resentment toward my twin. Dear old Taryn, the sad one, the fragile one, always grabbing attention, even when she's missing.

"That's just if need be," Madoc says hastily. "Maybe she's on the palace grounds somewhere. Let's turn out the palace servants. They'll find her, if she's here."

"If?" My voice sounds strange in my own ears.

Madoc's eyes flick to me, but all he says is, "Jude, help me."

And so I do.

All night we look for Taryn, scouring the palace grounds, rousting the servants to help. We go through as much of the palace as we can, search the gardens. But there's nothing. Not a single trace of Taryn anywhere. Oriana and Vivienne hurry home to look—maybe Taryn somehow made her own way back—but, as dawn is breaking over the ocean and we're all red-eyed and cranky with mounting anxiety—Vivienne sends a seagull with a message that Taryn isn't there, either.

"Where could she have gone?" I ask Madoc as we're heading home in the carriage Eldred loaned to us. I try to keep my panic out of my voice, but I'm not sure whether I succeed. My head hurts and my eyes burn. My thoughts run in frantic circles. "Where could she have possibly gone?"

He rubs his forehead tiredly. "I don't know, Jude." I wonder, with a start, whether this is the first time Madoc has ever admitted any weakness to me. "I'll go talk to Balekin later today, and put the word out. Someone must know. Someone must have seen her."

But it seems nobody has. Madoc's visit to Hollow Hall yields nothing, and messages pour in from the islands with a single import: nothing. No one has seen Taryn. No one has any idea where she is.

"Do you think she went Ironside?" I ask Vivienne later that day. We're on a balcony, looking for Madoc's return. He took his knights and hounds out earlier, to search the mainland. I wish he'd taken me, even though I'm staggering with exhaustion. I hate feeling so helpless, so useless.

"How?" Vivi demands grumpily. "It's not like she can get there on her own. And _I _certainly didn't take her."

"I didn't say you did," I say, annoyed. "But someone else might have."

"Who would do that?" Vivi gives a strange, bitter smile. "Who in all this pretty High Court cares enough for Taryn Duarte to take her back to the mortal world where she belongs? Prince Cardan? Prince _Balekin_? No, Jude, Taryn's not on the Ironside."

"So you think she's still here in Faerie?"

Vivienne doesn't look at me. "Maybe."

I'm about to question her further when I see the hunt returning, galloping across the sky. "Here they come!"

We hurry downstairs, hope giving us fresh spurts of energy, and arrive in the entryway just in time to see Oriana hurry to greet Madoc. As soon as I see my stepfather's face, I know it's not good news: he looks tired, angry and frustrated, with an edge of worry that frightens me as nothing else has so far.

"We didn't find her," he says without preamble. "Not a single trace. If any of my enemies snatched her, then they did a remarkably good job."

Oriana clutches her heart. "Madoc! You don't think that's what happened?"

"It's a possibility," he growls. "One we can't rule out. But…" He runs a great clawed hand through his hair. "I don't know what happened to her," he mutters finally, staring at the floor. "I don't know what happened to Taryn. She's gone."

And that's when it truly hits me. When I fully realize that, yes, this is happening. This is real.

Taryn is missing. My sister is missing. And no one has any idea where she could be.


	27. Bonus Scene: The Departure

"What do you mean, you're leaving?"

I freeze at the sound of Madoc's voice down the corridor. I'm going through Taryn's bedroom yet again, looking for some hint as to where she might have gone. I don't know why I keep trying: none of my other searches have yielded anything. There's no hint whatsoever that she was planning to leave, or that she might have a destination. In fact, there's no hint of much of anything, really. Her clothes hang in the closet or lie folded in the bureau, in neat ranks. The books sit untouched on the shelves. Even her beloved embroidery chest, full of fabric and hoops and reels of floss, looks sad and neglected, with no ongoing project or sign of mess. There's not a scrap of writing or anything personal, nothing that indicates Taryn as a person who actually lived in this room and used these things.

It gives me a strange, uneasy feeling as I go through her neglected possessions: how well did I actually know my sister? When did I lose touch with her so badly?

But now Vivienne's voice sounds, sharp and angry, "I mean I'm leaving, Madoc."

I put down the book I was holding and hurry out into the corridor. It's after dinner, and the house is mostly quiet, but Madoc is standing at the head of the staircase, glaring down. I come up quietly, and see Vivi halfway up the stairs, holding an Ironside suitcase.

She shakes it at Madoc insolently. It jiggles around, clearly empty. "I'm leaving," she repeats, voice hard and clear and defiant. "I'm heading for the Ironside. For good." Her eyes find me. "You should come too, Jude," she adds in a gentler tone. "Please."

Madoc's fists clench. "Have you forgotten," he inquires in a soft, dangerous voice, "that your sister is missing?"

"No, Madoc, as a matter of fact I hadn't forgotten that." Vivienne's eyes snap fire. Her mouth works as she glares at Madoc hatefully. "That's why I'm leaving, actually."

"What?" Unnoticed, Oriana comes up softly behind Madoc, hanging back worriedly. "Your younger sister has disappeared and you want to run off Ironside with that mortal girlfriend of yours?" Madoc demands incredulously.

"How do you know about Heather?" Vivi demands, momentarily taken aback.

Madoc smiles thinly. "There is very little you can do, Vivienne, that I don't know about. Now. Taryn has vanished into thin air and no one has the least idea where she is. We need to find her—we _all _need to find her. You have no right to leave when you should be helping me look for her!"

I thought I knew what Vivienne's rage looked like before this. As she draws herself up and magic crackles around her like lightning, I realize that I had no idea.

With a shriek, she throws the suitcase at Madoc. He knocks it aside with one arm, snarling, but Vivienne doesn't back down. She stands on the stair, lightning wreathing around her, fists clenched, hair crackling fire.

"How dare you say that!" Her shout brings a few servants running, from the upstairs corridor and peering up from the downstairs, shrinking back when they see the scene. "How dare you say that, you evil piece of murdering shit!"

I recoil, gaping, and see Oriana put her hand to her mouth. Shocked murmurs rise from the watching servants. Madoc just stands and stares, like he's too stunned to react.

"Taryn's dead!" Vivienne cries, voice breaking on a sob. She draws breath, gathering herself, before going on the attack again. "She's dead, and it's all your fault, for bringing her to this hellhole in the first place! You knew what would happen to her and Jude here. You knew, and you didn't care! You let the faeries at them, you let Taryn slip away, let her become more and more miserable, and never did a thing to help her. You as good as killed Taryn, Madoc. Maybe she killed herself or maybe some evil scut of a faerie murdered her, but either way her blood is on your hands, just like our parents'."

A ringing silence falls. Vivienne stands, panting, looking torn between savage triumph and a horrified surprise at her own daring. The moment hangs, and hangs, drawn out in sick suspense.

At last, Madoc speaks. "You selfish little brat," he hisses at Vivi, eyes like pits of fire. "You selfish, self-righteous, spoiled little madam. If Taryn was in such trouble, why didn't you try to save her? Or were you too busy hating me to bother? And now you want to run away, leaving your sister in danger. You've always hated me, Vivienne, more than you cared for your sisters. You're the selfish one, and you know it."

A sound escapes Vivienne like the screech of a hawk, and her lightnings sudden coalesce and leap upward, pouncing on Madoc with claws of light. He dodges, erecting a magical shield, but Vivienne leaps up, clearing the stairs, face a howling mask of rage, going for his throat. Madoc draws a dagger, snarling, and, in a strange moment of detachment, I notice how the light shines on the honed edge, so bright, so sharp—

Abruptly, sense slams back into me. "No!" I shout, running forward. "Stop it, both of you!"

"Yes!" bellows Oriana. "STOP!"

Madoc and Vivienne both reel back, yelling, as the force of Oriana's magical barrier knocks them away from each other. It gives me a sidelong blow, and I stumble back under its force, gasping for air.

"Stop!" Oriana repeats. A strange white light glows around her hair, sparks in her eyes. "I will not have this in my house! Back away, both of you!"

There's another sick pause. Then, slowly, as though its costing them their life's blood, they do so. They glare at each other with utter hatred, but Madoc and Vivienne both back away, tension radiating from them.

Oriana turns to Madoc. "Madoc," she says, crisp and clear, "you have no right to stop Vivienne from leaving. She is an adult now, and can go if she chooses. Vivienne," she adds, turning to my sister, "you have no right to blame Madoc for Taryn's disappearance simply because you hate him. You also have no right to kill your own father. Go, Vivienne. Go to the Ironside with your lover, if that's what you want. But don't seek to punish your father for a crime he didn't commit."

For a moment Vivienne stands, glaring bloody murder at both Madoc and Oriana. Then she turns. She turns to me.

"Jude," she whispers, all her rage suddenly gone, replaced by urgent pleading. "Please come with me. I can't bear to think of you all alone here."

Slowly, I shake my head. "I can't," I say, and I hardly recognize the voice coming out of my throat. "Vivi, I can't."

Sadly, she nods, as though she was expecting this. "I love you, Jude." She turns and heads down the staircase, not bothering to retrieve her suitcase, not bothering to try to get her things, as if none of that even matters anymore.

She's really doing it. She's really leaving. For good.

I stand frozen, watching, as she crosses the entryway, watched by the whispering servants, and pulls open the door. She steps out, and it slams shut behind her, with a final, echoing thud.

I glance at Madoc and Oriana. Oriana stands, panting, the odd white light dying, but Madoc is as still as stone, still as a sword at rest. He's as astonished as I am, I realize. He never really thought Vivienne would leave.

I make no conscious decision. By the time I realize, I'm already down the stairs and halfway across the entryway. I wrench the door open and run out into the night.

There the stars cram the sky, a celestial treasure trove, and the trees murmur in the night breeze. Vivi hasn't gone far, just across the border of the property. She's already raised her ragwort steed, standing ready to carry her across the worlds. She turns to me, face sad in the starlight, but unsurprised.

"Have you changed your mind?" she asks quietly, without real hope that I have. "Will you come after all?"

I pause to catch my breath. "No. Vivi, please, don't go!"

"I don't suppose Madoc will have me in the house anymore." All her anger seems to have gone, leaving only sorrow. "And…I can't stay here, Jude. I can't stay where Taryn died."

"She's not dead!" It comes out louder than I intended, scaring off several night birds from a nearby tree. I lower my voice. "Taryn's not dead, Vivi. I know she's not."

"How can you know such a thing, Jude?" Vivienne smiles at me sadly. "Madoc was right about one thing: Taryn was in trouble, and I didn't bother to notice. I was so busy hating him that I—" She breaks off, looking away. It takes her a moment to master herself once more, straightening and looking at me. "She was dying, Jude. Taryn was dying for a long, long time, right before our eyes, and we didn't even notice. We didn't _look_. And now she's probably killed herself. Maybe it's Madoc's fault she's dead, but it's ours too. Especially mine. I didn't notice. Didn't protect her."

"Vivienne," I say, speaking from some deep certainty I didn't even know was there, "_she's not dead._ Taryn's not dead. I'd know it if she was. Please, don't go. Stay here, and help me find her!"

"You're fooling yourself, Jude." Vivienne's voice is thick with tears. "Just like you have ever since Madoc brought you here. You're fooling yourself if you think you'll ever find a place here, that the faeries will ever accept you, that they'll ever see you as anything but beneath them. Madoc did this to you. He did this to us. And now Taryn's dead because of it."

"She's not dead," I repeat, clinging to my one certainty. "I'd know if she was. Don't abandon her like this, Vivi. Don't abandon us!"

Vivienne sighs, as though it's not even worth arguing anymore. "I'll keep in touch, okay? I'll check up on you, I promise. If you want to leave, you can let me know."

I stare at her, at my sister, who is abandoning me, abandoning my twin. "You want her to be dead, don't you?" I realize slowly. "You want Taryn to be dead, so you finally have an excuse to leave!"

"No I don't!" She finally looks up a this, eyes full of hurt. "Jude, how can you even think that? Of course I don't want Taryn to be dead! But there's no point in denying reality. Taryn's dead, Jude. And I can't—I bloody well _won't_—stay in this place that killed her!"

My breath hitches on a sudden, unbearable pain. Vivienne's wrong—I _know _she is—but what if she's right? What if Taryn really is dead? I think back to her sad, neglected bedroom. Her silence, her blank, bleak stare into nothing. Vivienne's right about one thing, I realize, slow and hideous: Taryn was utterly miserable. She wasn't just putting it on, she wasn't dangling for attention. My twin sister was completely miserable and growing more miserable and hopeless by the day, and I didn't notice.

Or…I couldn't be bothered to notice. I looked the other way, because that was easier than trying to help. I think back to my very last words to Taryn, when I called her a weakling and told her she was making us look bad, and I cringe.

I was the weakling. I was the coward. I abandoned my sister when she most needed me, but I will not abandon her now. Resolve gathers in me. Taryn is not dead. I _know _that, deep inside. And if it takes me the rest of my life, I will find her again.

I snap my gaze back on Vivienne. "I won't leave," I say, cold and hard. "I won't abandon Taryn like you're doing. I will stay, and I will find her again, if I have to search all of Faerie myself. And if you're right and she's dead, then I will avenge her. And if _I'm _right, then I will save her. Either way, I will never forgive you for abandoning her."

Silence, save for the voice of the wind, and the descending call of a solitary bird, far away. Vivienne stands like she's been turned to stone, the grasses blowing around her feet. Her steed shifts restlessly, tossing its head, eager to be gone.

At last, Vivienne turns away. She swings herself up onto her steed. "Goodbye, Jude," she says softly. "I'll check on you, okay? And if you need me, I'll come. I promise."

She kicks her steed in the sides. A part of me wants to run after her, scream, beg her not to go—but I won't. I stand rigid, fists clenched at my sides, watching Vivienne gallop away, disappearing into the sky, until she is finally gone and I am alone.


	28. Bonus Scene: The Vagabond

The sun is near to setting when I climb the stairs to the palace schoolroom. My footsteps echo in the unnatural quiet. I've never known this place so silent, broken only by Noggle's faint movements and his quiet mutterings.

"Good afternoon, Master Noggle," I say, opening the door.

Noggle looks up from packing books into the crate. "Ah, hello, Miss Jude," he says warmly. "Come to say goodbye?"

"Yes." I step fully into the room. Dust motes dance in the last beams of the sun. Most of the furniture has already been cleared out, and in the resultant hollow space the slightest noise echoes. I look around with a strange sense of disbelief. Was this really the site of the epic battles of my childhood? Of innumerable clashes I had with my schoolmates? Did I really think of this place with such intense dread and anger? Such emotion? This tiny, bare little room?

I turn back to Noggle. "I'm sorry you're leaving," I say quietly.

"I'm just closing up the palace school, Miss Jude." His eyes twinkle. "I'm not going off to war! I'll still be around Court plenty."

"Still."

"That's the way it works." He shrugs. "Students grow up. They leave school. In another few years or decades, there will be more students to teach." He smiles at me. "Speaking of which, congratulations are in order, Sir Jude!"

"I'm not a Sir yet, Master Noggle." Still, I can't help standing straighter, showing off my doublet with Madoc's crest embroidered on the front. I still can't believe Madoc let me start proper training as a knight a few weeks ago. Well, actually, I can: he's already lost his other two daughters. He has no intention of losing me too. Confining me to the barracks and training grounds is an excellent way of keeping me nearby and under his control. But I don't object: knightly training is what I've always wanted.

And I have considered my strategy regarding my search for Taryn. I can't just go haring off to Faerie's mainland; that would just be a fast way of getting myself killed. This way, I can stay at the High Court, where every piece of news and scrap of rumor eventually circulates, and I have entry to just about every social circle. I'm bound to hear something eventually. I hope.

The thought of Taryn deflates my proud moment. I sigh, looking away.

"Don't be sad, Miss Jude," Noggle says, reading my mind. "Your sister still might be found. Stranger things have happened."

"I know." I lean against the windowsill, raking my fingers through my hair. "I just worry so much about what actually happened to her. She's still alive—I_ know_ she is—but under what circumstances? If she was kidnapped…" I shiver.

"You haven't had a ransom note or anything?" At my shaken head, Noggle says encouragingly, "Then she might have just run away. Miss Taryn's been through some tough times; she might have just wanted some time alone to calm her soul. Court isn't exactly conducive to self-examination, after all. She'll come back once she's sorted things out in her mind."

I can't help smiling. Good old Noggle. Ever the optimist. "That's a nice thought, I suppose." My smile fades. "Did she really seem so unhappy to you?"

Noggle avoids my gaze, rearranging books in the crate. "You've both had a hard time," he says quietly. "You and Miss Taryn both. I was sorry when she stopped coming to class, but I wasn't surprised." He looks up suddenly, and I'm surprised by the sudden regret in his eyes. "I think sometimes I should have protected you better, Miss Jude. You and your sister both."

I glare back, dark memories rising between us like poison. "Yes," I say quietly. "Perhaps you should have."

He looks away. I sigh, anger draining out of me. "I apologize, Master Noggle." I'm speaking honestly here; I have better enemies to hate than Noggle.

Speaking of which… "Have you seen Cardan anywhere lately?"

"The prince? Why, no." Noggle seems suddenly very preoccupied with packing up his supplies.

"It's just that I haven't seen him since he stopped coming to class." That was such a surprise, coming into the schoolroom and seeing Cardan's place empty. We all sat through the lesson, silent and uneasy, and none of the Court of Grackles could even be bothered to torment me. They all just filed out of the room at the end of the day, like there was no point to anything, even malicious sport, without their prince.

That was really the beginning of the end of the palace school, I think. As the days passed and Cardan still didn't appear, all the spirit of the place seemed to be sucked out. Suddenly, there seemed to be no point to school, for any of us. One by one, we all started leaving: some of us back to our families, some into Court positions, myself into knightly training. Locke's mother took him away from Court altogether. "That boy needs to get his head on straight," I heard her telling Oriana. "A few years away from Court would do him a world of good."

"I don't know that anyone's seen him," Noggle says now, ears flicking in uneasiness.

"No one I've talked to has, that's for sure." I've been asking around, but no one will talk about Cardan. They're all like Noggle: weirdly evasive.

Noggle looks up with an odd smile. "Don't worry too much, Miss Jude," he says gently. "You will find both your sister and your prince again, I feel."

I blink in confusion and a strange embarrassment. "He's not _my _prince, Master Noggle. I mean, yes, he is, but not mine in particular…" I trail off, face heating, as I realize I'm babbling.

He shakes his head, still looking at me with that strange little smile. "How many times have I seen this dance before?" he murmurs, more to himself than to me, and chuckles before continuing to pack.

I wait, but he seems content to let the silence stretch on while he finishes up packing. "Do you need any help, Master Noggle?" I ask eventually.

He looks around. "No. Looks like I'm all set." He gives me one of his warm smiles. "It's been a pleasure teaching you, Miss Jude. I wish you the very best of luck in your future endeavors. And don't lose heart: those we value have a way of finding us again."

I give him a quick smile but don't reply. Maybe faeries can find those they value by magic, but I'm a mortal. I have to rely on luck, and frankly that's never worked out well in my life.

I'm still mulling over the conversation with Noggle as I'm heading home, late that night.

I got permission from Commander Foxfire to stay out of the barracks late. I think he knows why I sometimes ask to go to the clifftops at midnight, though he never says so. He just gives me permission, and I let myself quietly out. When I return, I go to my barracks room with equal discretion, and no one makes any comment.

Every seven days, Vivienne sends me a message at the clifftops, to check that I'm all right, and ask yet again if I will join her on the Ironside.

I'm still so angry with her. I keep going over the night she left, the terrible things she said, the way she just galloped off, leaving me here. Leaving _Taryn _here. Just deciding that our sister is dead, just like that, so she had an excuse to leave. But still I collect her notes from the enchanted seagulls that come wheeling over the ocean, and still I send her notes back, refusing to join her but assuring her of my well-being. I've already lost one sister. I can't bring myself to turn my back on Vivi—though, really, in all honor, that's what I should do. Vivienne refuses to do her duty by me and by Taryn, so what do I owe her?

But still. But still.

So I'm in no very good mood as I'm heading along the midnight paths back to the house. The woods are lit with fireflies and will-o-wisps, but not many faeries are out tonight. So I'm surprised when a cavalcade of horses suddenly thunders silently out of the sky to land on a broad swath of lawn before me.

Even before I see the crests of the knights, I know who it is: his thorns gleam in the moonlight. I halt immediately and bow low. Prince Balekin glances over, then looks away dismissively. He has no interest in me tonight. He trots away, leading his knights off, and soon they're gone, into the woods.

I watch them go, wondering. What were they doing, that they are returning home so late? Maybe looking for Taryn. Balekin's been astonishingly helpful in our search, bending his full resources to look for my sister. He's hunted on the mainland, and sent messages and spies to the lesser Courts. He really seems to want to help find her.

So why can't I warm to him? Why can't I trust him? Maybe because he hasn't really expressed any sympathy to us in our loss. He doesn't even seem all that _concerned _about Taryn. More…angry. He hunts for my sister with a furious obsession that makes me wonder what exactly he would do if he actually found her.

Frowning over my strange encounter, I continue on, following the pale footpath through the dark. There's a sort of village up ahead, of common faeries, and I skirt around the buildings, having no desire to encounter the inhabitants.

That's when I hear the thuds and shuffles up ahead.

I freeze. Slowly, so it makes no sound, I draw my cold-iron dagger. Holding it so it reflects no moonlight, I advance, cursing my feeble mortal eyesight that doesn't allow me to see clearly in the dark, to make out more than a vague shape that is scrabbling at a cottage window. Still, mortal eyesight or no, I sneak up behind them and press the blade to their throat.

"Just what do you think you're doing?" I demand, cold and hard.

The faerie under my dagger's blade stands frozen, still clinging to the windowsill. Then, very slowly, he turns around, and I see his face clearly in the moonlight.

Prince Cardan Greenbriar smiles at me. "Well?" he says. "Going to kill me, Jude Duarte?"

I stare at him. It's unmistakably Prince Cardan, his lovely face clearly illuminated in a brilliant moonbeam. But it is Cardan as I have never seen him before: his face drawn and haggard even in the mezzotint of the moon, hair shaggy, clothes ripped and torn. He makes no move to fight me or to escape. He merely stands, my blade still pressed to his throat.

Slowly, I withdraw it, but don't sheathe it. It's a cold iron blade: if I stab him with it, the wound will be iron-poisoned. He clearly knows this, as he stands still and inoffensive, eyeing my dagger warily.

"What are you doing here, Prince Cardan?" I ask at last.

"What are _you _doing here?" he returns. "I hardly think that mortal knights should be wandering around alone at night. Is Madoc's training regimen so lax that you have time to sneak off to meet some filthy lover—"

My dagger flashes, and he falls silent. "I am going to repeat the question one more time," I say in a quiet, steely voice. "What are you doing here, Cardan?"

For a moment he looks like he's going to fight, or make some other vicious remark. Then he gives an odd, defeated sigh, shoulders slumping. "I was trying to break in so I could steal some food," he mutters.

"Steal food?" I blink, honestly surprised. "Why would you do that?"

"Because I haven't eaten anything in three days," he says, still in that deadpan mumble.

"Three _days_?" When he doesn't react to this, I say, "Cardan, what's happened to you that you can't get food? Where have you _been _all this time?"

"Here and there." He gives a tired-looking shrug. "I was sleeping in someone's woodshed for a few days, but then they ran me out."

"Someone's _woodshed_?"

"Do you think you're a parrot or something?" he demands irritably. "Yes, someone's woodshed. Or in the woods. Or on the beach. I'm homeless, all right? My brother Balekin threw me out of the house. Happy now?"

I stare at him: my oldest enemy. The worst tormentor of my tormented childhood. The school bully who made my life an utter misery. The faerie prince who never missed an opportunity to remind me that my sister and I were mortal trash while he was royalty. And here he is: thin and ragged and homeless, trying to break into some commoner's house for a bite to eat, cowed into telling the truth just by a dagger.

"Well, well," I drawl at last, "took him long enough, didn't it? Just what did you do to finally piss your big brother off so badly?"

His mouth compresses into a thin line. I half-threaten him with the dagger again, and he visibly flinches. But he still doesn't speak. His face is closed with a stony resolve.

He really would rather be stabbed than tell me, I realize. "What _did_ happen?" I ask more seriously.

I half-expect him to attack me, but instead he looks away, face shadowed. He is silent.

I sigh. "All right, fine." I sheathe my dagger. "Come on."

"Come on?" He blinks.

"Who's the parrot now?" I taunt. "Come with me. I'll take you back to the house. We can get you something to eat in the kitchen."

He hangs back, staring incredulously. "Why would _you _help _me_?" he demands.

I pause. That is actually a very good question. "Call it mortal perversity," I say at last. "Now come on, or don't you want to eat?"

To show that I mean it, I turn my back on him and advance further down the path. After a few seconds, I hear his footsteps, following wearily after.

I lead the vagabond prince back to the house, cursing myself all the while and wondering what in Faerie's name I can be thinking. Why am I taking Prince Cardan, of all people, back to the house? Why am I feeding him? I should have left him to his misery. Hell, I should have stabbed him. It would serve him right. And, clearly, no one would have cared.

But maybe that's the very reason why I can't do it.

Just outside the perimeter, I wave Cardan down. "Can you get up a glamour?"

"What kind of glamour?" he asks, surprised.

"One that will trick other faeries," I say bluntly. "If you don't want your arrival announced all over the island, I've got to get you past the sentries unnoticed."

"The General still posts _sentries_?"

"This is Madoc, remember? And he's been even more paranoid since Taryn…" I trail off, and curse my weakness. "Since Taryn disappeared," I force myself to finish. "So get up a glamour. Make yourself look different. Trees know, just about anything would be an improvement on your current appearance. Then shut up and don't contradict anything I say."

He glares. "You're enjoying this, aren't you?"

I smirk. "Well, I _could _say no, but I'd be lying. Now hurry up."

He gives some more sullen mutters, but erects the glamour. When Cardan next looks up, he's completely different: green-haired, with the antlers and the lambent eyes of a wood elf. "There," he says, still in his own voice. "This should hold, even against other faeries. What now?"

In reply, I throw my arm around him. He recoils. "What are you _doing_?"

"Don't contradict me, Cardan," I smirk, and escort him out of the woods onto the grounds.

"Holla!" I salute the sentry, letting a bit of drunken stagger enter my footsteps and making Cardan stagger too. "I'm back."

"Miss Jude." The sentry is biting back a snigger. "Having a good night?"

"Oh, a _very_ good night." Unable to resist, I give Cardan a smacking kiss on the cheek, and giggle as he stiffens, vibrating with the effort not to jerk away from me. "And it's not over yet."

"Going to take him back to your old bedroom, are you?" the sentry laughs.

"You bet." I give her a broad wink. "Can't really get private in the barracks…if you know what I mean."

"I do indeed. Have fun!" Still sniggering, the guard steps aside, and I saunter past, escorting the stumbling Cardan after me, in through the kitchen door.

He breaks away the moment we're inside, glamour evaporating. Up close, in the clear illumination of the fey lights, he looks a good deal worse than out in the moonlight: thin and bony, his clothes hanging in dirty rags, face smudged with dirt. His iridescent black hair hangs in long, filthy tangles, and there are dark smudges under his cavernous eyes. Still, his smirk, when he turns it on me, as arrogant and insouciant as ever. "Why, Jude Duarte," he drawls, "is _that _the price of your assistance?"

"You wish, faerie boy," I snap, moving briskly past him. "Now come on, I'll get you something in the kitchen."

"You know, I think that's the first time in my life that anyone has called me 'faerie boy'," he says musingly as he follows me down the corridor.

"That's the beautiful thing about Life, isn't it?" I say dryly. "New experiences every day, new horizons, new things to learn. Now be quiet."

He takes a seat at the kitchen table while I hunt out a knife and cutting board. The kitchen is dark, cavernous and silent at this time of night, but the fey lights turn on as our movements trigger them, and the banked fires still glow in the ovens. He watches as I cut up fruit and slice a loaf of bread. "You know, you're scary when you have a knife."

"Good." I shove the cutting board of fruit and bread at him, and he immediately sets to. He really _is _hungry: by the time I turn back with a glass of water, half of the food is already gone.

"No wine?" he says ungratefully as I set the water glass before him.

I roll my eyes. "Great Trees, Cardan, just how much of a souse are you?" I push the water at him. "You don't need wine on a stomach three days empty. Drink this."

He drains the glass and gobbles some more, manners completely forgotten in his still-raging hunger.

"You're not worried that I've poisoned the apples or anything?" I ask eventually.

"No," he says between mouthfuls, and swallows. "That's not your style. You might poison someone to manipulate them or something, but if you really wanted me dead, Jude, you'd stab me."

While I'm blinking at this analysis, he finishes off the fruit plate. "Any cheese?"

After a moment, I hunt him out a hunk of white cheese. While he's eating that, I ask again, "Why did your brother throw you out?"

He swallows, then glares. His mouth is a thin line, letting nothing out.

He's really not going to tell me. I sigh. "All right, then why were you homeless? Why not ask at the palace?" He gives a scoffing laugh. "All right, then why didn't you go seek help from one of your friends?"

He gives a strange, bitter laugh and eats another piece of cheese. "You said yourself," he says in an odd, light tone, "that Life gives us new experiences every day. New things to learn. Well, one of the things that I have learned recently is that a homeless, unwanted prince _has _no friends. Even people he's gone to school with and has known for years become, by some strange alchemy, complete strangers. I must say, I found it rather odd."

I can't stop the smirk pulling at my lips. "I don't," I purr. "Well, well. So it was your _title_ your friends liked, not you." I put my hand to my breast, pretending surprise. "Wow. What a _shocker_—to absolutely no one but you."

His eyes flash and he half stands up. I feel a flash of fear, but don't back down. He's eaten my food; by the laws of Faerie, he owes me. And besides, I am a knight in training, high in the favor of a powerful courtier, that courtier's beloved daughter—while he is a prince so abysmally out of favor that he doesn't even have a change of clothes.

After all these years, the tables have finally turned. _He's _the powerless one now. And he knows it.

It's _fabulous_.

"Well?" I ask, just to rub it in. "Aren't you going to do anything?"

"Yes." Slowly and grandly, he sits down. "I am going to finish this cheese." He eats a piece. "Bland and substandard though it is."

I just smirk, seeing his complaints for what they are: a transparent attempt to save face. I wait until he finishes the cheese plate, then straighten. "Leave the dishes," I say. "And follow me. I'll take you to a guestroom."

Quietly, he stands and follows me to the kitchen exit. At the door, he suddenly speaks.

"You haven't found your sister Taryn yet, have you?"

My left hand—the one with the missing fingertip—tightens on the doorframe. "I will not discuss Taryn with you," I say, as calmly as I can, without looking back. "Now come on, and try not to wake anyone up."

He follows silently, saying nothing more.

We wend our way through the silent, shadowy house, to the guestrooms on the second floor. I quietly push a door open to see that the bed is made up in the first on the left. "Here," I whisper. "You can spend tonight here at least. Washroom's just off the bedroom." I let out a sudden yawn; I'm so tired. "I've got to get back to the barracks now, but I'll come back tomorrow."

He moves past me into the room. He turns to look back at me, a thin, ragged prince framed in dimness. "What if someone finds me? One of the servants or something?"

"Don't ask stupid questions, Cardan," I tell him, and shut the door in his face. I hear him start to move around the bedroom. I guess that means he'll be spending the night in there, just as I ordered. Or not, of course. Not that I care, I remind myself. Let him leave if he wants to. He's not my problem.

I turn away and head down the hall back out to the barracks, my own statement ringing in my mind: _Don't ask stupid questions. Don't ask stupid questions._

_Stupid. Stupid. Stupid._

In the barracks, we wake before dawn for pre-breakfast warmups and training. I'm therefore out of bed and fully dressed when the pounding comes on the door of my spartan little cell.

"Jude!" It's Commander Foxfire, sounding agitated. "Open up!"

I go to open the door and snap a salute as required to my superior officer. "Yes, sir?"

"The General wants you up at the house," he says. "Right now."

"Yes, sir," I say, as a good knight must, and follow him down the narrow corridor toward the stairs, not asking why Madoc wants to see me so early in the morning. It's not a knight's place to question her General's orders, and anyway I think I probably already know.

We leave the barracks, the whispered speculations of the other knights rising around us like murmurs of wind, and Foxfire escorts me to the main house. "Go to his study," he instructs, and then hesitates before heading back. "And Jude…good luck."

"And to you," I say, smiling to show that I appreciate his good wishes, before saluting again and heading into the house.

Inside, the servants all seem even more agitated than Foxfire, darting about and gathering to whisper excitedly. Tatterfell spots me and scurries over as I'm heading up the stairs. "Miss Jude," she says, fixing me with a suspicious stare, "one of the maids made an extremely unexpected discovery in one of the guestrooms."

"Did she now?" I say blandly, heading steadily up the stairs.

"You wouldn't happen to know anything about this, would you?" she asks, more suspicious than ever.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," I lie airily as I open the door to Madoc's study and bow to the three people already waiting inside.

Cardan already has a glass of wine, I notice disapprovingly. "A bit more polite than last night, aren't you, Jude?" he drawls.

"A bit more drunk than last night, aren't you, Cardan?" I say pointedly. I shut the door and come over to bow again to Madoc and Oriana. "Good morning."

"Jude," says Madoc, coming straight to the point, "what was Prince Cardan Greenbriar doing in one of my guestrooms last night, when neither Oriana nor I invited him?"

No point delaying the inevitable. I tell them the whole story, even though it sounds completely insane even as I recite it.

"You just…brought him back?" Oriana says incredulously when I'm finished. "Without telling us?"

"Yes. I thought he'd be gone by now." This is a lie. The truth is, it just didn't occur to me to wake Madoc or Oriana last night. I was enjoying having Cardan all to myself, I realize in surprise. I didn't want to share him with anyone else.

Madoc turns his glower on Cardan. The prince looks a bit better this morning, freshly bathed and with his hair brushed. He's also changed out of his royal rags into a respectable-looking suit that Oriana or her seamstresses must have run up for him on the spot this morning. Still, he stiffens warily as Madoc's eyes play over him.

"And you, Your Highness?" Madoc says softly. "Did you too think you would be gone by now?"

Cardan looks him right in the eye. "General, I wasn't thinking past food and bed last night. If you choose to throw me out, I have no means to stop you."

"No." It comes out before I can stop it, sudden and vehement. "I beg your pardon, sir," I add as Madoc's glower turns on me and I remember that I am one of his trainees now, not just his daughter. "But I would prefer it if you didn't throw him out."

"Why?" Madoc sounds genuinely surprised. "He never did you any kindness."

"Quite the opposite, in fact," Oriana adds, glaring at Cardan icily. He squirms.

I look at Cardan. A Greenbriar, one of the High Princes of Faerie, in borrowed clothes, squirming under my stepmother's glower, having admitted that he has no power anymore. Knowing that he has nowhere else to go. And completely dependent on _me_.

What better revenge could there be?

"If we take him in," I say slowly, "he will owe us. And it is always good to have a Greenbriar prince in your debt, is it not?"

After a moment, Madoc barks a laugh. "Very true!" He turns to Oriana. "Well, my lady wife? What do you say?"

Oriana fixes Cardan with no very great warmth. "I say," she says softly, "that I did not lose two daughters only to see the third tormented in her own house by her childhood enemy." She stands up then, seeming to loom over Cardan. "If you are to remain in my house," she says evenly, "then it is at the sufferance of my stepdaughter, and hers alone. Jude is your patron in this house, Prince Cardan Greenbriar, your patron and your protector. And you will treat her as such, at all times. If you say or do anything in the least hurtful or prejudicial to her interests in any way—and I do mean _anything_, Your Highness—then I am going to throw you out. And then you can starve on the beach for all I care."

Silence falls. Cardan's eyes flash, and for a moment I think his pride is going to erupt, triumph over his need. But then comes bitter understanding: he has hit rock bottom. He has been reduced to begging for shelter from his enemies. He can't afford pride. And he can't afford to turn down charity, whatever the terms it's offered under.

"Very well," he says at last. He stands and bows to us: Madoc, Oriana and me. "I apologize for my previous behavior, Jude Duarte," he says formally. "It will not be repeated. And I will not say or do anything in any way hurtful or prejudicial to your interests in any way while I live in this house. You have my sworn word."

I smile, vicious triumph filling me at the sight. But there's something else too, something I did not expect. Pity. And sympathy. For I know what it's like, to have to beg from your enemies.

"I accept your sworn word, Prince Cardan," I say clearly. "And your apology." I straighten, holding out my hands in welcome. "Welcome to the house of Grand General Madoc," I say, as I should, as his sponsor in the house.

"Yes. Welcome to my house, Prince Cardan," says Madoc. He pauses, eyes brightening as a new thought strikes him. "You'd better go get your things from the barracks, Jude," he says, sounding suddenly much more cheerful.

I blink. "What?" I ask, forgetting knightly protocol in my surprise. "Why?"

Madoc shoots me a triumphant grin. "You're moving back into the main house," he says smoothly. "As the prince's patron, it's not proper that you sleep away from him, after all. You ought to at least share the same roof."

"Madoc's right, Jude," says Oriana reluctantly.

"But…" I cast around for arguments. I don't want to leave the barracks. I've found purpose there, and I've enjoyed the company of the other knights. Many of them have fought alongside mortals before, and know what a human knight can be worth; they see me as a fellow colleague, someone who can earn their trust and respect. I don't want to be shrunk back into a girl again, to have Madoc and Oriana and now Cardan watching my every move. Foxfire is a lot more understanding about the need to look the other way now and then, especially when I have to, say, communicate with Vivienne or talk to someone who might know something about Taryn. "But I have to continue my training—"

"You can do that from the house," Madoc says swiftly. He's grinning; he loves this. Loves this excuse to put me completely back under his thumb. "The practice yards aren't exactly distant, after all. You can train with the other knights, but you'll eat your meals with your family and sleep back in the main house. Understood, trainee?"

I do understand. He's addressing me as a trainee, not a daughter. I can't argue. I salute. "Yes, General," I say. "I'll get my things and move back in today."

"Excellent." Madoc dismisses me, and I salute again as I head for the door. I shoot a glare at Cardan as I go. He's barely been in this house twelve hours and he's already ruining things for me. How am I going to talk to Vivienne now, or conduct my investigations, with Madoc and Oriana watching me every hour of every day?

Unless…I shoot Cardan another look, more thoughtful. A smirk pulls my lips.

Perhaps the little prince can be useful after all.


	29. Bonus Scene: The Prophecy

I freeze, one foot still on the stair, when I hear the voices down in the entry hall. Oh, Great Trees. It's Balekin again.

Moving as silently as I can, I retrace my steps, heading back up the stairs and retreating down the corridor. I really have no desire to talk to Prince Balekin tonight, though I'll probably have to: he's undoubtedly staying for dinner. I wonder if I can lie and say that Foxfire wants me to practice extra tonight.

I'm interrupted in my duplicitous ruminations by a soft glugging sound. I freeze, listening. It's coming from behind the discreet servants' door at the end of the corridor.

I open the door and march up the servants' staircase to yank the bottle from Cardan's hand. "Where did you get that wine?"

"From a mainland trader." He leans back on the staircase, drunkenly at ease. "Since your lady mother ordered the cellars closed against me, and your father's servants are remarkably incorruptible, I have to resort to cheap mainland moonshine."

I smirk. "Serves you right." Oriana has made it her mission to get Cardan to stop drinking so much, and the servants have all proven remarkably helpful and cooperative in preventing our princely guest from getting his hands on anything alcoholic. Of course, they're doing it out of spite rather than concern: Prince Cardan Greenbriar has never exactly been popular here at Madoc's house, and a lot of the servants and guards take a sadistic, class-based joy in sticking it to royalty.

I sit down beside him, still holding the bottle. "What are you doing back here, anyway?"

"Hiding from Balekin," he says matter-of-factly. He gives me a shrewd look. "And, if I judge aright, so are you."

"I was looking for you, actually," I say, dodging the implicit question.

"No," he says immediately. "I won't do it."

"You don't even know what I'm asking for yet!"

"I know I don't want to do it. You already made me sneak you out of the house two nights ago, to get one of your sister's messages. Those weekly sororal messages are quite harrowing enough."

"Think of it as part of your rent," I say unsympathetically. "After all, it's not like you do anything else useful, is it? You're even lazier and more useless than most faeries, Cardan. You just sit around the house all day. Really, you should be grateful to me, preventing you from leading an entirely idle and pointless existence."

He examines his fingernails. "Typical of you, Jude Duarte, to think that the best way of getting someone to do you a favor is to insult them and tell them what a waste of time they are. Tell me, are all mortals so rude and stupid?"

"Well, how should I know? I don't spend much time Ironside, do I? Come on, Cardan," I wheedle. "This involves two of your favorite things: alcohol and pointless bitching."

"Really?" He looks more interested. "What is it?"

"A revel," I say triumphantly. "Tonight, out on the east side of the island. I need you to be my date."

He looks tempted, but says, "Make one of the knights be your date."

"If I do that, they'll go running straight to Madoc with the whole story. I can trust you to be discreet."

"Yes, I suppose so," he grumbles. He scowls resentfully at me. "Why do you even want to go, anyway, with or without a date? I never got the impression you particularly enjoyed parties."

"Maybe not, but I can't find out anything about Taryn if I just stay home all the time."

"Good point, I suppose." He gives an elaborate sigh. "All right. I'll come, and be your date. As long as I get to drink as much as I want, and bitch pointlessly to my heart's content."

"It's a deal." I stand up, still holding the bottle of moonshine. "See you at dinner."

"Wait." He catches hold of my sleeve, making me look back. He looks at me with something I never thought he'd direct at me before: a sparkle of mischief. "Do you really want to have dinner with my brother?"

"Not particularly, but do we have a choice?"

"Of course we do. We can head out early and get dinner on the way to the revel."

"And abandon a Greenbriar at a meal in our house?" Still, my mouth is curling up at the thought.

"Why not? It's not _us _he's come to see."

I consider this. Cardan's right: Balekin hasn't even spoken to either us during his last few visits. I don't mind much on my own account—I don't have much to say to Balekin these days—but it makes me feel strange, seeing him give Cardan the same treatment. Surely it's not natural for Balekin to act like his own brother doesn't even exist, when Cardan is standing right there?

Still I hesitate. "If we skip out on dinner," I say, "it's not you who will get into trouble."

"Nonsense. You couldn't possibly disobey the orders of a Greenbriar prince, could you?"

I fold my arms, but a grin is pulling at my mouth. "I don't know. Is a Greenbriar prince giving me a direct order?"

"Absolutely." He gives me his own conspiratorial smile.

I can't stop the grin breaking out on my face. "Then I guess I have no choice, do I? Though this had better not be a ruse to get me into trouble, Cardan," I add in a growl.

"It isn't, actually," he sighs. "I just don't want to eat with Balekin again. It really is excruciating torture. I'd much rather be out getting drunk with you."

"I'm not getting drunk," I snap, suddenly furious. "I know this is a foreign concept for you, Cardan, but I actually feel responsible for my sister, and want to know what became of her."

He stands up suddenly. All signs of drunkenness are gone as he glares at me, fierce and angry. "You are not the only one who feels responsible for Taryn, Jude," he says quietly. "You are not the only one who wants to know what really happened that night." While I'm still blinking, he marches past me to the door on the landing. "Come on. I'm looking forward to dressing you up for this revel."

"_You're _not dressing me up for it," I say, even as I follow him out.

"Maybe not." He flashes me a bright look. "But I really do insist on choosing your outfit, Jude Duarte. You have the fashion sense of a half-blind cave hag who hasn't been out in society for the last thousand years. Now hurry up, before Oriana comes looking for us."

Later, as the moon is rising out of the ocean and the woods are velvety with night, embroidered with fireflies and the sudden flashes of late-night faeries, we head out toward the revel, Cardan holding a magically conjured light for my weak mortal eyes.

"I don't see why I had to dress up." I stop to disentangle my skirt from a clinging bush. True to his threat, Cardan barged straight into my room and rootled through my closet, holding various outfits up to me and discarding at least a dozen before settling on a long, russet-brown dress with short sleeves, paired with a shawl embroidered with autumn leaves. It was a bit creepy, actually, how enthusiastic he was about the task. I asked him outright if he was trying to make me look stupid in front of the faeries, and he rolled his eyes. "What, you think I want my date making me look foolish? I want you to look nice, Jude—or at least presentable."

Now I continue the argument. "It's not like _you _dressed up."

"I don't need to," he smirks, tossing his hair back. "I'm handsome enough already." Through the trees, we can see the lights of the revel, and hear the music. "You, on the other hand, need all the help you can get."

I roll my eyes. "Wow, Cardan, way to compliment a girl." Then I frown as I realize something. "Wait—what do you mean that you're handsome enough? Aren't you going to wear a glamour—?"

"Ah! Perfect!" Cardan suddenly swoops away with the light, leaving me stranded in the dark. Seething, I feel for the knives and daggers I strapped into thigh sheaths under my skirt. I can't swear I won't use one on the prince tonight, if this keeps up.

He comes back with a bunch of small, fragrantly scented white flowers. "Hold still," he says, and the flowers suddenly rise into the air, spinning and whirling around one another. Before I can duck away, they arrange themselves into chains and rings, and slip onto my wrists, around my neck, and crowning my hair.

"There." Cardan stands back, surveying his work with satisfaction. "Much better."

I look at my new necklace and bracelets. I look at him. "All the help I can get, huh?"

"Quite so." He offers me his arm, and lets out an exasperated sigh when I hold back. "Come on, Jude, if I'm going to be your date, you have to touch me sometime this evening."

Stiffly, I place my hand on his arm. His flesh is warm beneath his black velvet sleeve. Together, we proceed into the lights of the revel.

The clearing isn't far from the beach, so we can hear the waves pounding the shore. Fey lights are strung from the trees, and pixies twinkle as they dart among the leaves. There are several bonfires, burning with strange colors, and already revelers are dancing around them, in complicated patterns of jigs and reels, to the music of several musicians, both mortal and faerie, perched in and among the trees. Faeries of all kinds dart past, laughing, twirling, singing in high-pitched voices to the music, eating honey cakes and swigging wine and mead. The air is spangled with glittering magical lights, like stars fallen to earth.

It's only when a few nearby revelers fall still and stare, and the first whisper rises—"_Prince Cardan_!"—that I realize what Cardan has done.

"You nitwit faerie!" I hiss into his ear. "Why aren't you wearing a glamour?"

"Because I didn't want to." He slices a grin at me. "Now, shall we go pick up a few drinks, or would you rather stand here whispering into my ear like you've lost your heart to me?"

I feel my face heat. Of course: that _is _what it must have looked like, to our curiously watching audience. Grinding my teeth, I let Cardan lead me, slow and sauntering, out among the revelers, right where everyone can get a good look at us. Just what is he playing at? I wonder furiously. I can't see any advantage to him in this, unless it's some complex game designed to humiliate me somehow.

"Ah, excellent, drinks!" Cardan says as we approach the kegs. "And no Oriana to stop me drinking as much as I like. Here, Jude, talk to this nice goblin while I get us some mead." And before I can protest, he's deposited me next to a tall, green-skinned goblin and hurried off to grab some tankards.

"Bad date?" The goblin has a remarkably melodious voice, at odds with his hideous appearance.

I make myself laugh. "Something like that. He's been living with us for a few weeks now."

"Yes, I heard." The goblin takes a drink. "You must be Jude Duarte, daughter of General Madoc. You can call me the Roach."

"Pleased to meet you, Roach," I say. "I haven't seen you around before. Are you new to Court?"

"Something like that." He nods at a white-haired female faerie and a human-looking male faerie. "My friends and I came here from the mainland, looking for opportunity."

My ears prick. "The mainland?" If Taryn is anywhere, she must be on Faerie's mainland. "Did you meet many mortals there?"

"Several." Roach takes another drink, eyeing me. "But if you're asking if we have heard anything regarding your missing sister, then I'm afraid the answer is no."

"Ah." I subside, disappointed. "So you've heard of our misfortune?"

"Everyone has heard of Taryn Duarte's disappearance." The female faerie speaks now, regarding me sympathetically. "You have our condolences, Jude Duarte. It is a terrible thing, to lose family."

"I appreciate your sympathies." And I do; I'm more moved than I dare to show. "What should I call you?"

"Call me the Bomb." She grins, white and fierce. "I like blowing things up."

"And I'm the Ghost," says the human-looking faerie.

"Pleased to meet you both," I say, nodding to them. "What sort of things do you blow up?" I ask the Bomb.

"Whatever I'm paid to blow up," she laughs.

I have to laugh too. "And have you been paid to blow up anything here at the High Court?"

"No, alas." Her laughter fades. "Actually, the High Court's been something of a disappointment."

"How so?"

"We were hoping to find employment with one of the nobles here," says the Roach. "Maybe even one of the Greenbriars. But the situation here…" He shakes his head. "It's too unstable."

"What do you mean?"

He gives a short laugh. "Well, the High King is getting old and tired, for a start. Tired of ruling; probably tired of living, too. But who is to succeed him? He hasn't named any of his sons as his successor. On the contrary, he publicly demonstrates contempt for all of them. And none of them have any children. There are no heirs in reserve, no grandchild for Eldred to groom as his successor. Faeries are starting to wonder if this is the end of the Greenbriar dynasty."

"The end of the Greenbriars?" I know I should shut my ears to this treason—I should turn my back and go find Cardan immediately, pretend I never heard any of this. But I'm too fascinated. "What would happen in that case?"

The Roach shrugs. "That's the problem: no one knows. Would Dain or Balekin vie for the crown? Neither of them has a powerbase sufficiently strong to guarantee victory, and even if they did, the problem remains: no children and thus no future. Would another monarch seize the High Throne? No one could possibly agree on who that monarch should be. There would be war on a vast scale, with millions dead. Would Faerie collapse into a hundred little kingdoms, all jostling for supremacy? That would mean anarchy."

"And the mortal world would suffer too," I murmur, thinking of the anarchy in Faerie spilling over onto Earth.

"Exactly. None of the outcomes are good, and everyone knows it. The courtiers are all jumpy as grasshoppers, desperate to come out on the right side, but they don't know what that right side will be. They don't dare make any bold moves, for fear they'll make a mistake that will cost them their lives. This is not a great environment for seeking employment. My friends and I haven't found anyone willing to hire us." He tips his glass at me in a toast. "And, ironically enough, it was your sister who decided our next course of action for us. When the daughters of powerful courtiers start disappearing and no one can find them, it's time to leave. We're heading out tomorrow."

I fight back a pang of disappointment. "Well, I'm sorry to see you go, Roach. It's been fascinating talking to you." I pause. "Perhaps a bit _too _fascinating. I don't think you'd do very well here at Court, to be honest."

"Not the Court as it is, perhaps." The Roach finishes his drink and sets it aside, regarding me thoughtfully. "Till next we meet, Jude Duarte."

"What makes you think we'll meet again?"

"Just a feeling." His eyes gleam. "Something tells me that you will someday be in a position to appreciate our talents, Miss Duarte."

Then he and his friends are gone, sliding away through the crowd like snakes.

"Did you manage to scare them off already?" Cardan appears at my side, armed with tankards of mead. He lets out a low whistle. "Quick work, even for you."

"Oh, shut up." I take one of the tankards, but don't drink from it. "Actually, it was Taryn who scared them off. Did you put anything in this mead? Or enchant it?"

"No and no, and just how did Taryn scare them off?" He takes a generous swig.

"They were here at Court looking for work, and Taryn's disappearance convinced them that it was a bad idea. Have you done _anything _to this mead, Cardan? Or had anyone else do anything? Or how about the tankard?"

He sighs wearily. "Relax, Jude. It's just mead, I swear. No one has tampered with it—or with the tankard."

"Good." I sip cautiously, but it really is just mead. I take a fuller drink.

He watches me. "You're very untrusting."

"I'd be a fool if I wasn't," I growl. "You haven't given me many reasons to trust you, Cardan Greenbriar."

"Only my sworn word," he says quietly. "And that actually means something from a faerie, you know, even if it doesn't from a mortal."

"Oh, yes." I roll my eyes. "It means ever so much, right to the point where you wriggle out of it through clever wording or an ambiguous phrase. Very honorable."

"Well, I'd be an idiot to try and wriggle out of it," Cardan points out. "Considering that your patronage is the only thing between me and homelessness right now. And Madoc and Oriana both believe the worst of me, and will happily take any excuse to throw me out." He drinks some more. "It's interesting that it was Taryn's disappearance that scared them off," he muses. "Did he say which aspect of her disappearance disturbed them so much?"

"The fact that a courtier's daughter vanished and no one can find her." I drink some more. "It _is _bizarre. There should have been signs or traces. And Madoc and Balekin should have found out _something_ by now."

"Unless Taryn covered her tracks."

"Covered her tracks?" I blink at him. "You think Taryn actually ran away of her own volition?" I laugh disbelievingly. "_Taryn?_"

"It's a possibility." He takes another swig. Half of his mead is already gone. "And, frankly, anyone with any sense would try to run if Balekin was stalking them like that."

Midway through another sip, I choke. Coughing, I lower my tankard, trying to catch my breath. "_Stalking _her?"

"What else do you call it?" he shrugs. "Balekin wanted her, and he didn't particularly care whether she wanted him back. And there were Madoc and Oriana, trying to prostitute her to their own advantage. Taryn might have decided that she'd had enough."

I eye him a bit coldly. "You've given this some thought, Cardan."

"I've had time to think about it. And I saw—" He breaks off.

"You saw…what?" When he doesn't reply, I sigh in exasperation. "Fine. Don't tell me. Still that afraid of Balekin?"

"Yes."

I check at this, but toss back my hair. "All right, then I'll go find someone else to talk to. Someone who might actually help me." I start to move away, only to halt at his hand on my arm. "What are you doing, Cardan?" I demand, cold and hard.

"You're my date." His face has gone back to a humorous and unreadable mask again. This is the first time that I've realized that it _is _a mask. "And you're not leaving me here looking foolish on my own. Dance with me, Jude Duarte."

"Why should I?"

"Because it's going to look awfully strange for us to come to a revel together and then not dance," he says in that light, mocking tone. It's a mask too, I realize suddenly. So much of Cardan Greenbriar is a mask, an act. Where is the real person? "We will call attention to ourselves, and I don't think you want that." He suddenly pulls me into his arms, one hand behind my back. "Dance with me," he says again, his voice gone rough and charged.

I want to refuse. But he's right: it _would _look odd for us to come together and then split up to talk to other people. And, looking into his eyes, I feel my will to refuse melt away. Is this a spell? I wonder, my heart quickening. Is he enchanting me somehow?

But before I can act on my suspicions, the music changes, and he sweeps me into the dance.

Around and around we go, leaping and twirling around one another, kicking our feet, swaying in time to the music. Cardan spins me out and whirls me close, and I feel as light and graceful as a faerie in his arms. Strength and power flow through me, the music leaping in my veins, and I fling myself through flickering firelight and deepest shadow in his arms. When Cardan throws me into the air, I laugh in pure delight, and fall back into his arms with perfect trust, my body sliding down along his.

The song ends, and we slowly spin to a halt. Around us, revelers applaud and raise their voices in appreciation of the song, and for a moment I think they're applauding us: the dance Cardan and I have just performed. I'm panting, though I hardly feel winded, and to my surprise, Cardan is panting too. His black eyes shine as he looks at me. He hasn't let go of my hands, I notice suddenly.

"Well," he says at last, "that went surprisingly well."

"Surprisingly so," I agree. I haven't let go of his hands either. "Shall we try another set?" The musicians are warming up again.

He pulls me into his arms again. "If you insist."

The moon has passed its zenith and the stars have turned by the time we stagger out of the dance set and then out of the revel. The night spins around me, and I wonder yet again if Cardan has somehow enchanted me. Or maybe I just drank too much. I stumble, and fall against him. "Get off!" I snap, recoiling.

"And she's back again," he announces to no one in particular. "Jude Duarte, jumpy as a small, vicious rodent and just as likely to bite."

"And with teeth just as sharp," I retort. "You're staggering, Cardan. Just how much did you drink?"

"Hey," he says, weaving up against a tree, "you promised I could get drunk."

"No, I promised there would be booze."

"Now who's wriggling out of promises like a faerie?" he mutters.

He has a point, I suppose. "I don't particularly care if you get off your face," I say, "except I need you to light the way home."

He sighs, but conjures a light that drifts over to me. "There," he says. "It'll stay lit for you. You guide us home, Jude; I'm too drunk."

I sigh. "All right, hold onto me."

He half-leans against me as we start homeward through the woods. I have to admit, it's not entirely unpleasant.

Our progress is slow, though, and we attract the attention of a few faeries, sliding through the woods or flitting through the branches to stare at us. I glare at them, and lift my skirt to show my cold-iron dagger. That scares most of them off.

Until we hear a high-pitched cackle, and the crash of someone taking even less care than we are to move quietly through the woods. Cardan stiffens, and I draw my dagger, my drunkenness evaporating, as the night hag comes around the footpath and weaves to a halt, staring at us with crazed yellow eyes.

I throw back Cardan to go to into defensive stance, my cold-iron weapon at the ready, but she makes no move to attack. Instead she staggers around, cackling and singing softly under her breath.

"Where is the prince?" she demands suddenly, voice cracking across the nighttime woods. "I have a message for the prince!"

Cardan steps forward. "I am here." He suddenly seems a lot less drunk, regarding the night hag with steady eyes. "What is the message? Who is it from?"

"From the moon and stars that saw the evil deed, boy." She staggers closer, the scent of leaves and earth and starlight breathing off her. "From the darkness that screamed, and from the earth that cried out that night. And the message is not for you. It is for your brother."

"Which one?" Still Cardan stands steady, even as the crazed hag weaves and stumbles closer to him.

"The son of the star-eyed lady." The hag is only inches away now, yellow eyes fixed on Cardan. "Tell him the message, boy. Tell him it not the hand that kills that he must fear, but the hand that heals. Tell him to fear the whorled horn, and the scorpion's tail. Tell him that his own blood shall betray him, and the lost princess shall revile him. Tell him that the silent one lives still, and those of her blood shall determine the fate of the crown." The hag claws at Cardan's chest. "Tell him that, boy!"

Then her eyes roll up in her head and she collapses to the ground. Cardan and I stand still, staring at her fallen form. She gives a long, bubbling snore.

"Well," Cardan says at last, "that's it, then." He takes hold of my arms, escorting me around the unconscious hag.

I glance over my shoulder at her. "Will she be all right?"

"Right as rain, once she wakes up. But she won't remember a thing." He gives me a quick smile, face greenish in the magical light. "She was prophesying, Jude. It wasn't _her _speaking."

"Prophesying…" I glance over my shoulder at her again. "But what did it mean? The son of the star-eyed lady? The hand that heals? The silent one? And what lost princess?"

"How should I know?" Cardan shrugs. "Taniot is beautiful, but no one would describe her as star-eyed, so I suppose the prophecy must have meant Balekin."

"Balekin?" I trip over a tree root. "But that prophecy made it sound like—like a crime had been committed. Like there would be vengeance for a crime."

"Is that so surprising, considering my brother?" Cardan asks, voice incongruously light. "I will admit that that prophecy was a bit ominous. My brother might be in for a bit of trouble."

I shove at him. "_Will_ you take this seriously? She mentioned the fate of the crown!"

"Yes, that it would be determined by people related by blood to this 'silent one'. Can you understand that, Jude?"

I grind my teeth. "Not really," I admit at last. We walk further on. "Will you tell Balekin?" I ask at last.

"No." We round the final corner and emerge from the woods. Madoc's stronghold looms against the star, with only a few windows lit. "My brother wouldn't listen, and anyway that prophesying hag didn't make me promise."

"It sounds like your brother's in serious trouble, though," I point out.

He looks at me, eyes gleaming in the light as it winks out. "And I should mourn?"

Good point. I step closer to Cardan, letting him throw the glamour of darkness over us. It doesn't work on faeries who look at us straight on, but will allow us to slip past the guards who aren't expecting to see us. Over the last few weeks, on our nocturnal sorties to the cliffs, we've also perfected a route that minimizes the number of sentries we have to pass.

As we start on our winding, circuitous route, my thoughts on the guards trigger old, dark memories. My left hand clenches, remembering that guard who bit the top digit of my finger off. Odd—I haven't really thought of him in years. And—now that I think about it—I haven't seen him at all since that day. It's like he just disappeared.

Funny. I wonder what happened to him?

Then I shrug it off. It's not important. I concentrate on getting the intoxicated prince indoors, the prophecy still whirling around my head.


	30. Bonus Scene: The Lovers

Bloody iron. You'd think I'd have learned by now.

I trudge through the forests of Faerie, hauling my weapons with me. Night is falling, and a wind is kicking up, soughing through the trees. There's going to be a storm before long—I need to find shelter. But I'm too furious and exasperated to be afraid.

Iron-bloody courtiers. I should have known something was up when they invited me and Cardan on a hunt. We haven't exactly been actively ostracized over the last few months—Cardan may be a pariah, but he's still a Greenbriar, and I am his companion—but while we're never blocked from attending Court functions or more informal events, no one's actually invited us to anything. I should have known this invitation was suspicious.

But it seemed like such a good opportunity to talk, to try and discern more rumors that might be helpful. And to get onto Faerie's mainland, where I could possibly talk to more faeries, outside the Court. Faeries who might know something about Taryn.

It all seemed to be going well at first. I actually had quite a nice time, stalking through the forest and talking to my fellow hunters, and Cardan of course was enjoying himself immensely, chatting up everyone like he'd never known a day of abandonment in his life. The sight infuriated me for some reason, though, and I allowed the hunt to separate us, putting distance between me and his annoying face, his endless, tiresome charm.

Perhaps that was a mistake. In fact, I know it was: it just allowed the courtiers to sudden slip away, leaving me all alone in the forests of Faerie. I heard them snickering, and then I was abruptly alone, with my bow and arrows and no way home.

I kept my head; I can be proud of that, at least. I knew I had to get to the coast, so I started following streams, keeping a wary distance from the water. But it was slow going, my clumsy human footsteps crashing through the underbrush, and now darkness has begun to fall. I'm facing the prospect of a night out alone in the forests. In a storm.

All right, forget about making it to the coast. I stop following the stream and start looking for shelter.

The wind blows harder, bending the trees back. They bow before the power of the coming storm, their tops still sunlit, vivid against the furious clouds darkening the sky. A fistful of wind blows leaves into my face, and I curse, knocking them away. Bloody iron. Everything's mocking me—including Cardan by now, laughing and jeering with his fellow aristocrats—

The thought makes me so blind with rage that at first I don't hear the voice calling my name. "Jude! Jude!" the voice shouts, floating over the wind.

I knock an arrow, just in case, and back up against a tree. "Who's there?" I shout back.

"It's me." And Cardan comes out of the trees like a piece of the storm itself. I catch my breath at the sight of him: windblown and gorgeous, his dishevelment only making him more handsome somehow…I shake my head, snapping out of it.

"Where have you been?" The wind snatches away my words in the first cold spatter of rain.

"I came back to find you," he says, reaching my side at last. "Everyone was sniggering about leaving you all alone in the woods all night, so I figured you probably needed some help," he said conversationally.

I scowl at him. "I do not need help."

At that very moment, a huge lightning bolt cracks across the sky. Seconds later comes the vast boom of thunder. The wind blows harder.

"Oh, really?" Cardan says mildly. "Because I sort of got the impression that a violent storm was on its way and we might both need to find shelter. There's no way we can get home through this storm."

"You faerie creep." But I fall into step beside him. We make our way through the thrashing woods.

Everywhere is the rustle of animals and flash of faeries hurrying to find shelter. It grows darker, lit only by increasingly frequent flashes of lightning. The forest lashes us with branches and bushes, all of them with an inordinate number of thorns. A cackle rings above us, and I look up to see the red eyes of a tree goblin, swinging through the treetops, laughing madly. He spots us, and starts to lunge, but I fire an arrow and Cardan lets loose a gout of black flame. Both missiles miss, but the goblin charges away, shrieking.

"The storm's gotten all the wild fey riled up," Cardan nearly has to shout into my ear. "Any ideas for shelter?"

"You're the faerie! You think of something!" I yell back. Another burst of rain falls over us, cold and wet.

"It's mortals who have new ideas!" he bawls back.

Another flash of lightning cracks out before I can reply, illuminating— "Come on!" I fight my way forward, Cardan right behind me.

It's a stone-built cottage, half-ruined and clearly abandoned, but with enough of the structure still standing to shelter us from the storm. I kick in the door, half-rotten wood yielding under my boot, and scan the interior warily.

Cardan ignites the spell, and his magical light illuminates the cottage. It's completely abandoned—what little furniture there is lies wrecked and ruined—and no one else seems to have taken shelter here. Cardan advances further into the dusty, spider webbed interior while I shut the door with a sigh of relief.

"Well," Cardan says at last, "this is rather exciting." He throws up his hand, and his light flies up to hover near the ceiling. "I wonder if there's any food?" He heads over to the vine growing in the corner while I take off my sodden cloak and start hunting around for my flint and steel.

Cardan returns with fruit, fresh and sweet from the magical vine, just as I've started a fire in the fireplace with broken-up furniture. His eyes meet mine, and all at once, after months of surprisingly harmonious cohabitation, I know that we're going to fight. And it's going to be a bad fight.

He stiffens with the same knowledge as he places the fruit on the half-wrecked table. Then, with an elaborate sigh that utterly infuriates me, he turns to face me. "All right, Jude," he says. "Out with it."

"Why did you come back?" I demand, voice cracking sharp. "Why didn't you just ride off with all your smug little friends and laugh at me?"

"First of all, they're not my friends," he snaps. "I don't consider people who left me to starve after my brother kicked me out as friends. Second of all, a storm was coming. You could have died, Jude." Tree branches knock hard on the outside of the house, wind whistling around the roof.

I laugh, hard and contemptuous. "Don't pretend like you care what happens to me, Cardan Greenbriar," I sneer. "You don't give a damn about me, and you never did. All those years, you bullied me and Taryn for daring to impinge on your precious little Gentry school. 'Oh, it's those stupid mortals again!'" I imitate his cold, sneering tone. "'Why do they keep coming to our school? Why aren't they in the cesspit where they belong?' Or how about 'Take a bite of that dirt, dirt-girl!'" I advance on Cardan, dagger gleaming in my hand, and have the satisfaction of seeing him back away, eyes lit with fear. "Why?" I demand, voice raw and harsh. "Why did you torment us like that? Just because we were mortal bastards and you were an oh-so-special faerie prince and you could fucking get away with it?"

"Well, yes, partly," he sneers, regaining some of his arrogance.

He ducks as my dagger whizzes, whirling through the space his head occupied half a second ago. No matter: I've got another one. I draw it and lunge at him. He dodges, and then we're running in circles around the table, me slashing at him, him trying frantically to keep out of range.

"You fucking faerie!" I scream, too angry to care about the consequences, voice rivaling the storm for fury. "You fucking piece of shit faerie! I don't know why I saved you, you worthless ass!"

With a snarl, he whirls around, and I scream in frustration as I come to an abrupt halt, my whole body caught in an invisible web. I struggle, kicking and screaming, but only tangle myself further. "A coward, too!" I yell, and spit at his feet.

"You sound like Balekin." He's panting hard, more from emotion than exertion, eyes blazing. "He used to call me a coward all the time. Just as you used to call Taryn a coward too, and a weakling. How long has it been now, Jude, since you saw your twin sister? Eight months? Nine? What were your last words to her, pray tell?"

I scream wordlessly, even as the tears come. He's right: my final words to her were that she was a coward and a weakling. I stare at him wildly. I didn't know it was _possible _to hate someone this much.

"You want to know why I bullied you in school, Jude Duarte?" He's panting harder than ever, face livid with emotion. "You want to know the real reason?" He leans in, the scent of pine and fir coming off him. "I was _jealous _of you. I was jealous of you and your sisters."

For a moment, I'm too stunned to think. I hang in his web-spell, just gaping. Then—"_What_?" I yell. "What the _hell_? What—jealous? How could _you _have been jealous of _us_?"

"You don't see it, do you?" He shakes his head, giving an odd half-laugh. "You look at me and you think I have it all, don't you?" He shrugs out of his jacket, tossing it onto the table, and his hands go to his shirt buttons. "Take a look, Jude Duarte."

I hang in his spell, watching helplessly, as he unbuttons his shirt and strips it off, pulling it out of his pants and tossing it aside. Then he turns around, and I see his back.

I don't cry out, but my eyes widen. I can see his back clearly in the firelight and the magic light, bare of any covering. It's a mesh of scars. Long, thin scars, scoring his back, ranks of them. Whip scars, from multiple beatings.

Cardan turns around to face me, eyes pits of black fire in his grim face. "My brother did this," he says, voice low and flat. "Dear old Balekin. He beat me, over and over, because I wasn't good at swordplay, because I talked back, because I wouldn't kill at his behest, because he just didn't like me. He told me it was because he loved me. He convinced himself that was why. And that made it even worse." He takes a deep breath. "And then I'd go to school, still aching, and there you'd be: the bastard mortal daughter of General Madoc's errant wife. And you'd be the star pupil. Noggle drooling all over you, beating everyone in swordplay, answering every question right. Then you'd be out playing with your sisters, all of you laughing and happy, none of you trying to kill or hurt each other. Your sisters _love _you, Jude!" He laughs, wild and angry. "So does Madoc. Do you know how he talks about you to other people, when you can't hear? 'You mark my words, my daughter is going to do great things! Just watch, Jude is going to make us all proud.' My father couldn't even be bothered to feed me when I was homeless! Eldred doesn't care whether I live or die, and neither do my brothers, and neither does my mother either, for that matter. While you…" He tosses a hand at me helplessly, and his spell abruptly evaporates, releasing me . "You cannot know," he finishes quietly. "There has never been a moment in your life when you have not been loved, Jude Duarte."

I fall to my feet, dagger still drawn, but not threatening him with it. I stare at him, astonished at this view of my family, of my life. At this glimpse of _Cardan's _life.

I had no idea. I never, ever imagined anything like this.

Slowly, I hold up my left hand. I show him my missing fingertip. "See this?" I say, low and hard. "One of Madoc's guards bit my finger off when I was only nine years old, because he hated mortals so much. He threatened to eat me completely if I told anyone, so I didn't. And he was typical, Cardan. All my _life_ here has been like that. Always afraid, always on my guard, always aware that everyone around me thinks I'm lesser, that I'm prey. Knowing that I'm inferior, that I'm just a mortal, weaker than the weakest faerie. That I have to work twice as hard as anyone else, to get half the reward. Living with the man who murdered my parents in front of me! Do you have any idea how it feels to _love _your parents' murderer? And now I've lost both my sisters. One of them could be dead. Taryn might have killed herself, Cardan, and I didn't save her."

"Yes, Jude." He runs his hands through his hair, muscles moving smoothly under his torso, and the sight makes something clench, not entirely unpleasantly. "I've started to see that, since I actually started living with you." He throws himself to the floor in front of the fire.

It seems we're not going to actually kill each other after all, so I sit down beside him. The fire's heat washes over us, and the storm's noise sounds almost peaceful outside the cottage.

I look at Cardan's scars, livid in the firelight. It takes a lot of damage to scar a faerie that badly. Balekin's beatings must have been truly savage. I wince at the thought, and I wince again, imagining those hands that beat Cardan touching my sister. How could I have ever thought that Taryn should have been honored at Balekin's attentions? That she should have yielded?

"You want to know why Balekin finally threw me out, Jude?" Cardan says suddenly. "Why he finally exiled me from his house? It was because I confronted him about Taryn. I saw him that night, Jude. I saw him leading Taryn off from the ball, and I saw him coming back without her. And then he was acting so strange about her…So obsessive, even for him. I asked him outright why he was so fixed on your sister. I asked him what happened that night.

"So he hit me. Several times, actually. Then he said, 'If you can't keep from my business, then you have no place in my house.' Then he literally threw me out the door and shut it in my face."

I come alert. "You think Balekin had something to do with Taryn's disappearance?"

He laughs bitterly, ironically. "Why, yes, I do think he had something to do with it. But I don't think he killed her, Jude. If he had, he wouldn't be trying to help Madoc find her. I think he tried to hurt her, but she got away somehow."

"And we can't confront him about it," I realize. "Not a mortal girl and an outcast prince. Not if we have no proof." I bury my face in my hands, exhaustion and despair washing over me. "And it's been months…"

"Nine months."

Something in Cardan's voice makes me look up. He's staring into the distance, a strange expression on his face. "Nine months," he repeats, voice a mere whisper.

"Cardan?"

He blinks out of his fugue, shaking his head and refocusing. "Sorry," he says. "Odd moment there. I thought I had something, but then it slipped away. No, I agree, we can't confront Balekin, or accuse him before Eldred. The King's never listened to me before, so why would he do so now?"

I give him a hard look. "Maybe you were jealous of us and all," I say harshly, "but don't pretend like you care for Taryn too much, Cardan. You'd never put your neck on the line for her."

"Excuse me," he glowers, "but I already have. I confronted Balekin about Taryn, remember? And gotten myself kicked out of the house for my trouble. Maybe Taryn and I were never exactly best friends, but I do feel a modicum of responsibility." His face relaxes into its old mask of humor. "Besides," he says easily, "you're my patron. Aren't I supposed to be helping you out whenever I can?"

"Stop it," I snap out in sudden irritation.

"What?"

"Being so charming. Don't you ever get sick of it?"

He gives that maddening grin. "Don't you ever get sick of being sarcastic and prickly?"

For a moment I'm tempted to snap back at him, or give him a facetious answer: a taste of his own medicine. Then I collapse, exhaustion falling over me like chainmail. Great Trees, what's the point?

"Of course I do," I say, not looking at him. "But it's better than the alternative."

"Which is?"

I turn to look him in the eye. "People seeing me. Truly seeing me."

Understanding flickers through his eyes. "Yes," he says at last, softly. "I can understand that." He gives a quick, unhappy smile. "So I think you know why I never stop being charming and facetious, Jude."

"Yes," I say. "I know." And I do.

We sit by the fire a moment more, the storm raging outside the cottage. I feel the heat of Cardan's body, the even rhythm of his breath. He still hasn't put his shirt back on. I find myself sneaking another peak. Damn, but he has a great body. Not muscled and conditioned like the guards and knights, but lean and slender and strong, his tail curled around his legs. The scars only make him more interesting somehow.

"We should put more wood on the fire," he says eventually.

"Yes," I agree. "We should." Neither of us makes a move.

My eyes stray to the scars again. I wonder what they feel like.

"Go ahead," he says.

"What?"

"Touch them. I know you want to."

I hesitate, but he's right: I _do _want to. Slowly, I reach out and trace my fingers along one of the longer scars. It's rough under my fingertips, the skin around it smooth. I trail down along its length, from his shoulder to the small of his back, and he lets out a rattling hiss, the tuft on his tail twitching.

"Want me to stop?" I ask, not removing my hand.

I sense him struggling before saying, "No." Then: "Do it again."

I trace my fingers down his back again, choosing a different scar to follow. He has so many. I feel a flash of rage at Balekin, for hurting Cardan so badly. What possible excuse could there be for inflicting such damage on his own brother? Nothing, except pure sadism, pure meanness.

"He didn't use an iron-tipped whip, did he?" I ask, still tracing the scar.

"No," he says quietly. "Balekin is just very, very good at hurting people."

My stomach tightens at this, at the thought of Balekin stalking Taryn. _Hurting _her. And me, doing nothing to stop him. Nothing to help her.

I withdraw my hand, ignoring the pang of cold disappointment. "We shouldn't be doing this."

He turns to face me, and I find myself staring into his black, black eyes. My breath catches. "Why not?" he asks softly. "What's 'this?'" He moves closer, and I draw back before I can stop myself. "Show me what 'this' is, Jude. Show me what you want."

"I don't want anything." It comes out too soft, shaking slightly.

"Liar." He comes closer, and I shift back again. "Why are you backing up? I'm not going to hurt you."

"You're a faerie," I say, still too soft. "All faeries hurt mortals. It's what you do. And you hate me, remember?"

He hesitates. "I was jealous of you, Jude. It's not the same thing." He comes closer still. "Come on. Touch my scars again."

"You want me to feel up your scars?" I snort, hoping it hides my rising fear, my rising excitement. "You really are sick, Cardan, even for a faerie."

"Then you must be sick too, because I know you want to." He's so close now that his warm breath fans my cheek, my ear, as he whispers, "You want to touch them all, don't you? You want to know what each one feels like. So go ahead. Trace each one, Jude Duarte."

I look him in the eye again. "You want me to touch you, Cardan?"

He sucks in a shaking breath. "Yes."

"Very well." And I swing myself around so I'm sitting in his lap, facing him, faces mere inches away. I reach around him to touch his scars again, his skin fever-hot. "I'll touch you," I whisper, and start tracing each scar, slowly.

He shudders, frame going stiff in my arms. His eyes roll up, mouth going slack. I grin in triumph, trailing my fingers down his back, so slowly.

"Jude," he gasps. His breaths come quick, jerking against me. "Jude, look at me."

I do. I meet his gaze, and for the first time ever, there is no fear between us, no hatred, no bitterness, no resentment. There's just him and me.

Cardan leans in, and he kisses me. We kiss for a long, long moment, there before our dying fire, the storm howling around outside.

Then Cardan reaches for the fastening on my doublet, and I reach down to unlace his pants, and there is no more talking.

"Jude," Cardan says much later, the gray morning light beaming in through the cottage's broken window, "your stomach is growling."

"Mmm." Eyes still closed, I arrange myself more comfortably against him, face pressed into his bare shoulder. His skin smells wonderful.

"Funny how mortals' stomachs do that."

I open my eyes and reach up to swat at his hair. "It's your fault. You didn't let me up to get anything to eat all night."

"I was enjoying myself too much. And so were you." He draws me up, and we share another leisurely kiss, while outside the last of the storm tosses fitfully through the trees.

He breaks it off, falling back. He stares up at the ceiling with a strange, faraway look. "There's been a child born," he says, voice as distant as his gaze. "A child was born last night."

I frown down at him. In his black eyes, stars spark and gleam, a ripple of magic. "What child? What child, Cardan?"

He shakes his head, the light of farsighted magic fading away. "I don't know," he says. "It's gone." He gives me his old, easy grin. "Relax, Jude, I don't think we're quite at that point yet."

I snort. "Right, Cardan." Privately, I hope we never _do _reach that point. Motherhood has never held any particular attraction for me.

Although…if Cardan and I _did _have a child…

"Do you want a child?" I ask him.

"No," he says promptly, relaxing back on the floor. "I don't think I'd make much of a father. But I don't think we need to worry," he adds complacently. "All we Greenbriar princes are as infertile as rocks."

I know these are dangerous waters, but still I press. "You really don't want one? Not even for the throne?"

"Oh, Great Trees, not you too!" He groans, turning his head aside.

"What?"

He sighs and faces me. His hair is tousled, his throat still adorned with the marks I left on it last night. He has never looked more scrumptious, or more earnest. "Everyone assumes I want the crown," he says. "I don't. I never did. Kingship is a curse. Just look what it's doing to Eldred. It's sucking the life right out of him."

"Hush." I look around fearfully at the empty, ruined cottage. "Don't speak of that."

"All right, fine, but I stand by what I said. No throne for me."

I feel a surge of strange disappointment, and shake it off. What was I hoping for, that Cardan would gain the throne and recognize me as an official consort? Give me a Court position? I laugh silently at my own foolish ambitions. Get a grip.

I scoot off him. "I'm going to eat something."

"Great. Bring me something too."

"Get it yourself," I retort, wrapping myself in his shirt and standing up. The floor is cold and gritty under my bare feet, and I'm sore in some uncomfortable places. I make my way to the table, rather more slowly than I like, to pick up a piece of fruit.

At that very moment, the door flies open.

Cardan curses and half-sits up, but is tangled in our clothes. I take up automatic defensive fighting stance, ready to throw my fruit, as the tall, dark shape looms in the doorway and stares in at us.

"Nice shirt, Jude," they say at last, in a familiar voice. It's Saxifrage, Madoc's Mirror knight.

I make the mistake of looking down, and my face flames. Cardan's shirt has swung open, revealing my body in all its naked glory. I hastily start to button it shut while Saxifrage lets out a long, melodious laugh.

"Looks like you owe me money, Commander!" she shouts over her shoulder to someone outside. "It didn't even take them a year!"

"What…?" And now Commander Foxfire appears at Saxifrage's shoulder. He takes in the scene and lets out a long chuckle. "Oh, Jude," he says with a creeping grin. "You couldn't have held out just a _little _longer?"

"Bloody iron," Cardan groans. "I take it a lot of money will be changing hands today at Court?"

"A veritable fortune, Your Highness," Foxfire says, chuckling. "Now put your clothes on, both you, before you go greet the General outside."

"Madoc's here?" I ask. Of course he is, I think: it's the icing on the humiliation cake.

"Naturally. We've been out looking for you ever since the storm died down." Foxfire smirks at me and Cardan again. "Though it looks like you weren't in any danger after all."

"True; we weathered the storm just fine." Saxifrage and Foxfire both bark out laughs at this. "Now, if you don't mind closing the door…"

Still chuckling, they close the door. Cardan and I face each other in the dimness.

"Well, that's it," I say. "The news will be all over Court now."

"Did you really expect anything else, Jude?" Cardan grins at me as he starts putting his clothes back on. "And honestly, won't it be nice to have the gossip focus on something that's actually pleasurable for us, rather than what a miserable pair of misfits we are? Give me my shirt back."

I have to grin as I strip his shirt off and hand it over. He has a point there, I suppose.


	31. Bonus Scene: The Tournament

That wasn't a half-bad tournament.

Still half-grinning with the exhilaration of fighting and sometimes winning, I take my helmet off, easing it carefully over my bruised and sweaty head, and stride off through the staging area. My heart is still zinging in my chest, and I keep reliving key moments of the bouts and duels I just took part in. Amazing, how much more I enjoy tournaments, now that I'm not trying to enact any kind of childish revenge, or prove anything to anyone. Cardan's cheers were ringing in my ears the entire time, and that made even defeat seem like fun. Well, more palatable, anyway.

I can still hear the shouts and chatter of the audience as it breaks up after the tournament, but back here in the staging area, a certain peace reigns. Not quiet, by any means: faeries and human knights alike all hurry to and fro, shout commands and questions, and I have pause more than once to let some kind of steed, equine and otherwise, go by on its way to the stables after the tournament. But no one is trying to attack me anymore. I can relive the contests in peace, and let my body feel the hurt of my bruises, oddly enjoyable.

Taryn would not have found such pain enjoyable.

I sigh, my good mood punctured. It's been seven years. Seven years, and not a single sign. Cardan and I have found nothing, and even Madoc has come up empty. Even Balekin has found not the slightest clue as to what might have happened to my sister. It's as though she really did disappear into thin air. I try to wrestle back my pain, shame and frustration. What _did _happen to her? And why can't anyone find any sign of her?

Maybe because there is no sign of her, I think abruptly. Maybe because she really is dead.

But somehow, despite everything, I still don't believe that. My certainty persists, pulsing and steady as a heartbeat: Taryn is still alive. Even now, I know: my sister still lives.

Still, that begs the question of _how_. I've had seven years to think about this, and I've come to the conclusion that her disappearance was unnatural, even by Faerie's standards. It is not normal for someone to just vanish without a single trace, for seven years. It makes me think that some greater power may have been involved. One of the monarchs, perhaps? But why would any faerie monarch care about Taryn, though, unless it was to hold her for ransom? We haven't gotten any ransom demands. So chances are, she's not at a Court.

So who or what might have abducted my sister? One of the sacred beings of Faerie, such as the unicorn or the firebird? But again, why would any of those creatures care about Taryn?

Unless…From what I've heard and researched, the unicorn manifests to women who have suffered injustice. Terrible injustice. I think about Cardan's suspicions regarding Balekin, and my stomach clenches.

Then, somewhat to my relief, voices interrupt my unpleasant reverie.

"…Just foolishness. There is no Lost Heir." It's a mortal knight, talking to a spriggan.

"It's true, I tell you!" The spriggan leaps about in agitation. "I've heard rumors. The Lost Heir's somewhere on the mainland, hidden away, until the time is right…"

I speed up, not wanting to hear any treason, and certainly not wanting to hear any more about the Lost Heir. That's all anyone ever talks about these days. I roll my eyes in disgust. The Lost Heir! A secret child of the Greenbriars, hidden away for years! How foolish can people be? If any of the princes had actually managed to father a child, we all would have heard about it by now. There's no way such a child could stay hidden.

Someone's shouting now about a healer. I ignore them. My armor suddenly seems to weigh much more than it did before, my helmet dragging down my hand, as my mind wanders from the Lost Heir to my lost sister. Where could Taryn have gone? I wonder for the millionth time. What happened to her?

"Lady Healer?" the voice repeats, sounding very surprised.

And suddenly I realize that they're talking to me.

I turn, blinking, and meet the wide eyes of an Unseelie knight. Dulcamara, from the Court of Termites, I realize after a heartbeat. I didn't face her in the bouts, but I heard she trounced all comers. From the look of her, her opponents gave as good as they got: she's sitting under an awning, bruised and bloodied, wings mangled and obviously waiting for the healer to come see her. And she's gaping at me, looking astonished.

"Lady Healer?" she repeats. "Unicorn-Blessed?"

I draw myself up. "You're mistaken," I say. "I'm not any Lady Healer."

She flinches back at the sound of my voice. "Well, that's very strange…" She keeps staring at me, gaping.

"What's so strange about it?" I snap. Her scrutiny is starting to make me uncomfortable, and that's making me angry. "You must see that I'm not a healer, so why do you expect me to be one? And what do you mean by 'Unicorn-Blessed?'"

Dulcamara closes her mouth. Already her astonishment is fading, replaced by a long, hard look of calculation. "Do you have any sisters, Sir Knight?" she asks.

I hesitate, but can't see any danger in answering her. "I have two," I say. "One of them lives on the Ironside."

"And the other?"

I fight my way past the stab of pain. "My twin," I say at last. "My twin sister. I don't know where she is. I haven't seen her in seven years."

"A twin…" She looks more shaken than ever. Her stare sharpens.

"What's the matter?" I snap, patience at an end.

At last she speaks. "Two weeks' sky-journey west from here, there is a valley, ringed by mountains, with a large blue lake in the middle. A river cascades over a cliff to pool in this lake before draining away underground. There a tribe of tree goblins lives, in a treetop village. Others live in this valley too. And that's all I can tell you, I'm afraid. My mouth is bound by oath."

Everything seems to go very slow around me. I can almost track each individual dust particle in the air. I try to catch my breath. An insane hope has crystallized inside me, shining and fragile.

"Do you mean…? Have you seen…?" I can't speak.

"I've told you all I can." Dulcamara waves me away. "Be off with you."

In a daze, I turn. My crazed thought—my wild hope—is still spinning around my mind.

Could it be? Could it possibly be?

There's only one person I want to discuss this with. Gathering myself, I stride off to find Cardan.

It's not easy. Party animal that he is, Cardan could be almost anywhere in a festive crowd like this. I've established that he isn't in the staging area, still in the stands, or cadging snacks from the royal kitchen servants when I hear my name being called and an arm suddenly snatches me around the shoulders.

"Jude!" Cardan hugs me tight and gives me a smacking kiss on the cheek. Off to the side, I see a group of courtiers, scowling resentfully after us. "How glad I am to see you, my darling! You know, you almost did well in the tournament."

I roll my eyes, tossing off his arm. "Charming as ever, faerie-boy. Where have you been? I was looking for you."

"I'm sure you were. Good afternoon, lords and ladies!" Draping his arm around me again, he waves the frustrated-looking courtiers goodbye and steers us swiftly away, losing ourselves in the crowd.

"Cardan, what was that about?" I hiss.

"Another Court faction, trying to interest me in a treasonous plot," he murmurs back. "Great Trees, but some people just do not take no for an answer. They've been really persistent lately."

My ears prick. "Because Eldred…?"

"Yes," he says shortly. "My dear old dad was certainly conspicuous by his absence at the tournament, wasn't he? A lot of people suddenly seem to think they can interest me in becoming their own pet puppet King. Everyone who isn't buzzing around Dain or Balekin, of course." He nods over at another group of courtiers, surrounding a smiling Prince Dain.

"_He's _certainly gathering his supporters." I can't completely smother the note of censure in my voice. I understand that Cardan's not very ambitious, but can't he muster just a _bit _of enthusiasm for planning his own future, at least? He's intelligent enough, for Faerie's sake! Can't he see that his own survival might depend on what he does next?

"If that's what it takes, then I'd just as soon wait for the Lost Heir to show up," he grimaces.

I roll my eyes again. "You don't really think there's a Lost Heir, do you?"

"You never know." His eyes twinkle at me. "So what did you want to say to me?"

I look around nervously and draw him into a nearby stand of trees, currently shedding their golden flowers. "Oh, dear, this is starting to seem ominous," Cardan says, brushing petals off his shoulders.

"Shut up and listen," I say tersely, and tell him the whole story of my encounter with Dulcamara.

He listens in silence, all humor fading from his face. When I finish, he says quietly, "So you really think this Dulcamara may have found Taryn?"

"I don't know. There's no way to be sure. But she sure recognized my face from somewhere. She thought I was this 'Lady Healer'. This 'Unicorn-Blessed'. Cardan, do you think…?"

"I don't know." He frowns skeptically. "What would Taryn be doing in an alpine forest with a tribe of tree goblins?"

"Well, we never did figure out how she got off the islands, did we?" When he hesitates further, I sigh in exasperation. "Come on, Cardan, can you think of another explanation?"

He considers this. "No, not really. So, when do we leave?"

"What?" I blink.

"Well, I assumed you wanted to at least check," he says reasonably. He lowers his voice. "And, quite frankly, I'd like to get away from Court. There are altogether too many conspirators for my personal comfort these days."

"Coward." But I deliver the insult absently, my mind racing with his suggestion. Follow Dulcamara's directions. Go check it out for ourselves. My heart speeds up. Could we really do it? And if we did, would we find Taryn?

"We can't tell Madoc," I say at last. "He'd try to stop us, or insist on accompanying us. And then Balekin would get involved."

"That does seem like a bad idea," Cardan agrees. "But if you leave without permission, aren't you holding your superior officer in contempt?"

"Indeed." I give him an innocent smile. "Unless, of course, a Greenbriar prince gives me a direct order."

He sighs, even as his mouth twitches up in a smile. "You only obey me when it suits you, Jude."

"Just so," I say sweetly. "But you just said this suited you, too. So are you going to give the order or not?"

"Oh, very well." He gives an elaborate sigh and straightens. "Jude Duarte, I command you to accompany me on our quest to find your twin sister. All responsibility is mine. Happy now?"

"Very," I purr. I start to move off. "We'd better go get ready."

"Wait." He stops me with one hand on my arm, looking at me with unusual seriousness. "We can't go alone, Jude."

"Well, we can hardly invite anyone else, can we?"

"Yes, we can," he says unexpectedly. "You have two sisters, you know."

It takes a second for me to process his suggestion. When I do, I recoil. "No!"

"Why not? We'll never make it out there on our own, Jude. The mainland's dangerous, especially that far out. You're a mortal and I'm a spoiled fop of a prince. And neither of us has much experience with this sort of thing."

"I've been on training trips to the mainland," I say defiantly.

"Yes, surrounded by faerie knights with centuries of experience," he says impatiently. "We need help, Jude. And Vivienne is the only person we can trust to give it to us."

"It's not like _she's _so experienced," I mutter mutinously, but, against my will, I'm starting to see Cardan's argument. He's right: I'm a mortal and Cardan's useless. We wouldn't last three days alone on the mainland. We need an extra pair of eyes, an extra pair of hands, at the very least. And better still, someone who can use magic.

Still I hesitate. "I don't want to tell Vivi," I mutter, sounding sullen and childish to my own ears. "She ran out on me. On Taryn. She doesn't care. So why should she come with us to find Taryn?"

Cardan gives me a long look. "When was your last communication with Vivienne, Jude?"

"Last week," I say reluctantly.

"And what did she say?"

"She asked how I was," I mumble. "I told her I was fine."

"And how many times has she communicated with you since she left home?"

"I haven't kept track." I can't meet his gaze. "But she's written to me every week."

"Every week without fail, in fact. That does not strike me as the action of a sister who does not care," Cardan says dryly. "On the contrary, it sounds like she cares very much. And what if we do find Taryn? What if she truly is at the end of this quest, and you didn't tell Vivienne? Would Vivi ever forgive you?"

Silence, broken only by the murmur of the crowd beyond the trees.

"Oh, all right," I growl out at last. He's right: I know he is. But that still doesn't mean I like it. "We'll invite her. But that doesn't mean I forgive her."

"I'd expect no less of you, my Jude." He flashes me a lightning-like grin. "Shall I send her a message tonight?"

"I suppose you'd better," I say grudgingly, and so it's finally settled.

Despite my resentment, I can't suppress the flutter of excitement under my breast, the irrepressible rise of hope, dawning like a sun within my heart.

Taryn, I'm coming.

A few weeks later, on a moonless night, Cardan and I wait in the glow of a conjured fey-light at the western cliffs of Eldred's island, the ocean sighing and shushing at the base. I shift, so keyed up that I can barely stand still. My palms sweat, despite the chill breeze off the water. This is it. We're finally actually doing this.

"Jude, stop dancing around like that," Cardan says. He's in his customary black, but his outfit is far more functional than usual, tough and practical. "You're making me nervous, and it won't make them arrive any faster."

"Yes, Cardan. I know." I give an exasperated sigh. "I can't believe that Heather's coming too. Why didn't Vivi stop her?"

"Well, it's a bit difficult to stop your mortal girlfriend when they've figured out that you're a faerie and have taken all kinds of precautions to stop you from enchanting them," says Cardan, maddeningly reasonable. "At least Vivienne did us the grace of warning us that she was coming."

"She could have snuck off or something," I grouse.

"I doubt Vivienne wishes to risk her girlfriend's displeasure in such a manner, Jude." He straightens suddenly, looking off into the sky. "Ah, here they come."

I squint after him, cursing my poor mortal eyesight. But soon I see them coming: two ragwort steeds, galloping silently through the air, with two riders, coming steadily nearer and nearer, until they swirl above our heads and land softly on the grass.

The pink-haired mortal dismounts with casual assurance, as though she's done this hundreds of times, and waves at us. "Hi! You must be Jude and Cardan."

"Indeed we are," says Cardan, bowing. "And you must be Heather."

"Too right I am." She looks around, bright-eyed with curiosity. "So this is Faerie Land? Nice. Very nice."

"Don't let its good looks fool you." Vivienne dismounts with less grace, and a deep scowl. "It's a hellhole and always has been. Prince Cardan." She gives Cardan a perfunctory curtsy, which he returns with an ironic nod.

Then Vivienne stands before me, scowl fading, suddenly uncertain. "Jude."

"Vivienne." I examine my sister, as she examines me. I haven't seen her in seven years. Seven long years of my anger and her pleading. Seven years of notes back and forth, but not a glimpse of her face, except in photographs she sends with her letters.

She's changed. She still glows with faerie health and beauty, of course, but her face is sadder and graver than it was before, drawn with a new reserve, a new maturity. She's cut her hair, and she wears human clothing. Of course: Vivi has always downplayed her faerie heritage, always wanted to be human, never appreciated what she had, or the opportunities she got that Taryn and I didn't…Rage rises again, and my lip curls.

"Jude." Cardan appears at my side, one hand on my arm. "Jude, don't. Remember why we're all here."

I take a deep breath, letting the anger dissipate. He's right: stewing in rage won't help us find Taryn. On the contrary, it will only make it harder. "I'm glad you came, Vivienne," I say at last.

"I'm glad you asked me," she says quietly. "And I'm sorry, Jude. I'm so sorry that I hurt you."

We stand in silence a moment, all four of us, while the ocean roars beneath us. I take one breath, then another. Vivienne may have abandoned me and Taryn before, but she's here now. She truly is sorry. And I need her. _Taryn _needs her.

"Apology accepted," I say at last. "We've got all our supplies ready. Shall we head out?"

"You didn't tell Madoc or Oriana I was coming, did you?" Vivienne says quietly as Cardan turns to raise two more ragwort steeds.

"Of course not." I heft up a loaded saddlebag. "They have no idea that you're here, or that we're going in search of Taryn. I did leave a note, though, telling them not to worry."

She checks. "You what?"

I sigh in exasperation. "Look, Vivi, Madoc's spent the last seven years tearing both Faerie and Earth apart looking for Taryn, and Oriana's been really unhappy too. I know you think they don't care about us, or about her, but you're wrong. And I'm not going to make them suffer any more than I have to. All right?"

"All right," she says after a long moment.

"Ragworts are ready!" Cardan sings out. "Are all prepared, or do you two need a few more minutes to work out your sisterly emotions?"

"Right, Cardan." I roll my eyes as I load the saddlebags onto the steeds, then mount up. The other three do as well, Cardan seating himself elegantly in his saddle. Despite his grace, however, there's an odd frown on his face, and he keeps glancing back over his shoulder.

"What is it?" I ask.

"Nothing, perhaps." He frowns over his shoulder again. "Just…Does this strike you as proceeding rather too smoothly?"

"Too smoothly?" Heather asks now.

"We got all our supplies without anyone asking any questions," Cardan explains. "Then we snuck out without the slightest difficulty—without encountering a single person, in fact. And now we're just riding off. This does not seem typical of our paranoid old guardian."

"Nonsense," I say, but my stomach tightens. He's right: we've been as discreet as we can, but surely Madoc or Oriana or Foxfire must have noticed that we were up to something? But they didn't say a single word. And we did have a remarkably easy time sneaking out of the house, loaded down with saddlebags. True, we timed it at the changing of the sentries, but perhaps the sentries took a little more time than usual to change…? And then we didn't encounter a single person, human or faerie, on our walk to the western cliffs. And now we're just riding off.

I push my reservations aside. Even if it is some kind of trap, we still have to go through with this. We have to find Taryn. My heart pulses with pain and yearning. Taryn. I will not abandon you again, my sister.

"Come on," I say. "Even if something is going on, this is our quest. Let's go find Taryn."

"Yes," says Vivienne, smiling for the first time since her arrival. "Let's find her."

And, kicking my ragwort steed, I lead the way into the sky.


	32. Bonus Scene: The Bandits

I'm just finishing some private business behind a tree when I hear the noise.

A woman's scream, a man's shout, and bloodthirsty laughter and snarls. Hastily lacing up my pants again, I draw my sword and ease through the underbrush, trying to get a better look.

There, in a glade lit by emerald sunlight, a wood elf and a sprite are under attack. The sprite's pink wings flutter in a desperate attempt to escape as the attackers—a band of ragged thugs—bear down with copper knives and heavy clubs, a boggan and an orc holding her down. The wood elf, burdened by a huge pack on his back, curses and lunges at them, but gets a blow to the head for his trouble. He staggers, clutching his skull. The attackers snigger.

I hesitate. We've been attacked twice ourselves on this journey into the wild—once by Unseelie soldiers and once by a disparate band of bandits like this one—and barely escaped each time. A part of me cravenly wants to ease away, find the others, and quietly make our escape. But then the sprite lets out a squeal of pure, unadulterated terror, and my cowardice melts away.

By the time the thugs realize they're under attack, I've already stabbed the first. He falls to the ground, screaming and clutching his iron-poisoned wound, and the others whirl around, glaring at me with piggy eyes.

"Well, what have we here?" A goblin spits on the ground. "A little mortal child, wandered ever so far from her mother. Little bitch is out where she don't belong—"  
He breaks off with an _umph _of air as I charge into his chest. A quick stab of my dagger, and he's staggering back. The others close in.

"Don't just stand there!" I yell at the couple. "Run!" But they stand frozen, clutching each other, as the thugs gather around. I'm fending them off with kicks and blows of my sword, but I know this can't go on—

The wind blasts out of nowhere, striking like a sword out of the sky. It disturbs not a leaf on the trees, doesn't touch a hair on my head or those of the couple, but the thugs are blown back like paper scraps, screaming and howling as the wind smacks them down and smothers them, fighting to stand but unable to so much as catch a breath to cast a spell.

"What—is—this—?" a goblin gasps out.

"Me." Cardan steps out of the forest, straightening his cuffs. "I must say," he says, staring tranquilly into space, "this is all rather uncivilized. Almost makes me miss Court."

"Let—us—go!" an orc manages. The wind pushes him back down, and he writhes, gasping.

"Not until you promise to bugger off and never bother any of us ever again," says Cardan calmly. "Go on. Promise."

Still struggling against the wind, they all gasp out promises, whereupon Cardan releases them with a negligent twist of his hand. One by one, they all stagger to their feet and run off, several still dripping blood, glancing over their shoulders, before disappearing into the trees.

I watch them go before turning to Cardan. "You should've let me kill them."

"Now, now, there was no need for such unpleasantness." He flicks off a leaf that's fallen on his shoulder and turns to the still-staring couple. "Are you all right?"

The sprite finds voice first. "We're fine, lord," she squeaks. She gives a hasty, clumsy curtsy. "And most grateful to you."

"Yes," agrees the elf gruffly, bowing under his enormous pack. "We owe you our lives."

"What's going on?" Heather and Vivienne appear, traipsing through the trees and peering into the glade.

"Jude and I just saved these good folks' lives!" Cardan says cheerfully. "What should we call you?" he asks the couple.

"I'm called Leon," says the elf faintly.

"And I'm Alys," says the sprite. She's hanging back, looking extremely nervous as her eyes flick from each of us to the others. "You're…you're courtiers, aren't you?" Her wings quiver.

Cardan and I exchange glances, and Vivienne sighs. We've run into this attitude again and again on our journey west. On our second day, for example, we innocently stopped at a village, thinking we could trade for some supplies. The instant the common faeries spotted us, they all squealed, _Courtiers!_, and either took to the wing or disappeared inside their houses, slamming their doors and windows shut against us. Nothing we said or did convinced them to emerge. Eventually we had to leave empty-handed. And it's been like that over and over: any common faeries we encounter either flee or try to attack us. On those rare occasions when we've persuaded the wild fey to trade with us or give us directions, they've been incredibly nervous, hurrying through the transaction to run or fly away, wings whirring with anxiety. _This _is the friendliest exchange we've had so far, and Alys and Leon both look ready to faint with fright.

Vivienne speaks first. "Yes, we're courtiers," she says gently. "But we don't mean you any harm, really. We were just passing through."

"I saw them attacking you," I say, perhaps a trifle roughly. "So I thought I'd help."

Alys and Leon exchange glances. "They did save our lives," she says reluctantly.

"So they did." Leon sighs and turns back to us. "We are grateful for your help, as we said," he says stiffly. "How can we repay you?"

"Perhaps you have supplies you could trade?" Cardan says, smiling easily. He leans in, lowering his voice. "And avoid saying anything about meeting us, eh?"

They look more alarmed than ever, but nod reluctantly. Leon swings down the huge pack from his back, laying out his wares.

It's obvious they're peddlers: they've fit a huge variety and amount of goods into their pack, from silken thread spun from sunlight to combs to jewelry to Ironside imports. They even have paper cans of salt. "Do you find many customers for those?" I ask, pointing them out as I hand over coin for a wheel of cheese.

Leon gives a strange, bitter laugh. "Oh, salt's becoming more popular all the time these days," he says. "Faeries want it to protect their homes, laying it across their lintels. They even rub it onto the blades of their weapons."

"Really?" says Heather interestedly. "I thought salt was deadly poisonous to faeries."

"It is," he says shortly. "But these cans—" He shakes one, making a dry rattling sound. "—Make it easy to handle the salt without touching it. And with all the Court raids…well, it's good to have some defenses around."

"Court raids?" Cardan says.

Alys, still quivering, lays a beseeching hand on Leon's elbow, but he ignores her. "Haven't you heard?" He gives that bitter laugh again. "The High King's rule is fading. Eldred hasn't made a real decision in years, and he certainly hasn't done anything to protect us common faeries. The lower Courts have gotten bolder and bolder. They raid our villages: commoners under the protection of rival Courts, and independent tribes too. They steal our crops, kill us, extort tribute from us. That's when they don't just carry us off as slaves," he adds, bitterness intensifying.

"Leon," Alys murmurs, eyeing us warily.

Cardan blinks, looking stunned. "Slaves?" he says. "How can that be? This is Faerie. They can't just draft you into their service without repaying you anything."

"Yes, well, it's amazing what nasty little contracts people will put their names to when the alternative is death," Leon says dryly. "It happened to my sister, a couple of years ago. Last I saw, she was in a Seelie Court's kitchens, cooking their food and cleaning up their mess—for a handful of golden grass seeds, paid every year!"

"Leon, stop," Alys pleads.

Cardan looks up, his wide eyes meeting my stunned gaze. Vivienne looks as astonished as we feel, and even Heather is blinking in horror. I can't shake off a sense of stunned disbelief. I thought I knew Faerie, understood the vicious cruelty under its lovely façade—but I never imagined anything like this. It's like when Cardan showed me his scars, and told me the truth of his life: that sense of everything I thought I knew being ripped away, the truth behind it spilling out in a putrid tide.

Heather pulls herself together first. "Maybe things will get better," she says encouragingly. "Maybe the, uh, High King will start ruling again. Or you'll get a new…" She trails off, knowing enough by now to be wary of anything that might smack of treason.

Leon snorts. "Even if something does happen to Eldred," he snarls, "all it'll mean is that one of his good-for-nothing sons takes the throne. I hear Prince Balekin hunts mortals for sport, Dain is a useless fop, and Prince Cardan is an utter wastrel who's been living as some human knight's pet. Any one of 'em would run Faerie to the ground inside a decade."

"Yes, well!" says Heather brightly, glancing at Cardan, who's gone a rather peculiar color. "As I said, perhaps things will improve." She takes out her shiny human camera. "Meanwhile, would either of you mind if I took your pictures? I'll give you one of these nice, human-made bracelets in exchange." She holds up a handful of brightly woven thread bracelets.

Alys throws herself at this excuse to leave the conversation, and she and Heather draw aside to pose for portraits. Vivienne hovers over them, staying protectively close to Heather, and I'm just about to pull Cardan away when he freezes, staring at a piece of jewelry on the blanket. "Where did you get that?" he asks sharply.

"Oh, this?" Leon holds up the gold ring with a decal shaped like a skull. I bite back a gasp as I suddenly recognize it. "Got it off a goblin trader. His village was troubled by a rogue courtier, he said: some nasty little boy who thought it would be fun to try and torture their children." The elf chuckles suddenly, eyes glinting in malice. "Wasn't so cocky when the goblins ambushed him and shot him full of salt-arrows, though! Died screaming, the goblin said. Wish I could have seen that. They tied his corpse up in a tree—I saw the skeleton, all rotten—and sold off all his possessions." He gives Cardan a wide, bright grin. "Are you interested in buying?"

"No." Cardan's mask is firmly back in place, all pleasant, unreadable lines. "No, I'm afraid I can't afford a new ring, not right now. Take my advice, though, Leon, and sell it well away from the High Court."

He turns away abruptly, striding off to the edge of the glade. Grimacing apologetically at Leon, I take our purchases and hurry after the prince.

I find him standing at the edge of a stream, flowing and chuckling around dark rocks, sticks and leaves caught among the boulders. "Well," Cardan says at last, without expression, "at least now we know what happened to Valerian."

I nod silently. Any expression of sorrow or sympathy would be beyond my thespian skills. Of all Cardan's nasty little "friends", Valerian was the worst: a malicious, evil piece of work from start to finish. After he dropped Cardan, he lurked around Court for a few years, disappearing at regular intervals, until he finally vanished for good about three years ago. No one bothered to look for him because, frankly, everyone was glad he was gone. I feel nothing but smug glee at the thought of Valerian ambushed by tree goblins, slaughtered by those he thought to make his victims—but I'm not sure I can say that to Cardan.

"Are you sorry?" I say at last.

"Not really," he says after a moment. "Valerian was utterly vile. I knew that even back when I thought he was my friend." He takes a deep breath, still staring down at the water. "I didn't know things were this bad," he mutters at last. "In Faerie. I didn't know common faeries were suffering like this. I didn't know the lower Courts were running rampant."

"We've been sheltered," I say shortly. "And it's just one report, really, from one bitter old elf. We don't know if that's the whole truth."

"If that's the case," he says lightly, "then the wild fey we've encountered have all been remarkably nervous about us." He takes another deep breath. "And it's only going to get worse once one of my brothers takes the throne. I can't see Balekin alleviating the commoners' woes."

I don't say anything. I don't point out the obvious solution to this problem: that it would be better if neither of his brothers got the crown. If he took it instead. I say nothing, because that is the covenant between us: I never nag him, never try to push him toward the throne he doesn't want, no matter what I think privately. But I can't stop my own thoughts: would it not be better for Cardan to take the crown, rather than one of his malicious brothers? With me at his side?

"Perhaps none of you princes will take the crown," I say instead. "Perhaps Eldred will recover, and go on to father a dozen more heirs."

"Yes. Perhaps." He visibly pulls himself together, straightening his cuffs and stepping away from the water's edge. "Come: we should go rescue Vivi and Heather from the elf revolutionary before he decides to join those tree goblins in making an example of a courtier."

"As if you'd have the guts, faerie boy." It feels good to sneer at him, the familiar exchange of insults comforting in the midst of these horrible revelations. "Faeries have no courage, and you are the most cowardly of all."

"Well, I'm a human knight's pet, remember?" He flashes a grin over his shoulder as we start to head back to the glade. I follow close behind, distracted by a new and troubling thought. If Faerie's mainland is so much more dangerous than we thought, how is Taryn faring? My stomach tightens at the thought of her being killed or enslaved by some predatory Court.

Well—I hurry my steps—if she's been captured, we can rescue her. And I know she isn't dead. The certainty burns still in my heart, a guiding light. All we have to do is follow it, to where my sister waits.


	33. Bonus Scene: The Reunion

**(Note:** **I already described the events of this bonus scene in Chapter 11: Guests, but I can't resist describing them again from Jude's perspective.)**

As we cross over the snow-capped mountains and the valley comes into view, my heart pounds with sudden excitement. "This must be it!"

Heather leans gingerly over, looking down. "Are you sure? It looks like any other valley to me."

"There's the river pouring into the lake! Come on, let's investigate."

We start to make our landing gallop, our ragwort steeds circling ever lower over the forested floor of the valley. The trees become differentiated as we go lower, and I glimpse structures in their branches: bridges and railed roadways, woven from branches and leaves and vines. Tree goblins must live here. I keep a sharp eye out as we make our descent. The danger from predatory Courts has grown less as we've moved into more unpopulated lands, but they've been amply replaced by carnivorous animals. Just yesterday we had to fend off an attack from a crag eagle, swooping down on us with gray-and-white wings, talons stretched to snatch us from our steeds. The days and the nights are torn by the savage howls of wargs as they range the forests.

The wild fey too have grown both wilder and bolder: the locals _here_ do not hide from courtiers. They drive them off with volleys of arrows, or try to ambush them, descending from the canopy with shrieks and flashing weapons. More than once, I've been grateful that Cardan insisted on Vivienne and Heather accompanying us. He's right: we would never have made it on our own. As it is, we've barely escaped several attacks with our lives.

The treetops are now brushing our mounts' legs. There's a clearing directly below us, no doubt cleared by a lightning strike, filled with berry bushes. There are three figures among the bushes, but before I can get a good look at them, they dart away, diving down under the bushes.

Maybe they can tell us something useful. I lead the others in landing in the clearing.

"Where'd they go?" Vivienne looks around.

"I think they went under those berry bushes," I say, and dismount. The others dismount after me, stretching out cramped limbs.

I peer at the bush where the three figures disappeared, but can't see any sign of them. They're keeping quiet, and have probably woven a protective camouflage by now. "Hello?" I call, trying to sound as unthreatening as possible. "We don't mean any harm, I swear. Please come out."

"Honestly, Jude," says Cardan, stretching and yawning. "After the entrance we've made, what makes you think they'll believe you?"

"Shut up, Cardan," I snap, and raise my voice again, stepping closer to the concealing bush. "Please come out. We're just here looking for our sister."

Deep in the shadows beneath the bush, there's movement. A pale hand emerges, and a shadowed face, as the person underneath crawls out. There's a split second, when they stand up, blinking in the light, before recognition hits me like a thunderbolt.

It's Taryn. It's my twin sister.

Everything goes very still and silent as I take her in. It's Taryn. Taryn. Her hair's cut short now, I notice with a kind of stunned wonder, and she wears forest clothes: pants and moccasins, and a practical shirt. A knife gleams at her hip, and a black pouch.

Taryn. Taryn.

Movement, and Vivienne steps up beside me. "Taryn?" she whispers in a choked voice, and there are tears in her eyes. "Taryn?"

Taryn's lips move, forming the syllables of Vivienne's name, but no sound emerges. Tears gather in her own eyes, burning with emotion.

"Taryn!" I choke out at last, and then I'm throwing myself on her, I'm hugging her, I'm hugging Taryn, it's my _sister_ in my arms, my sister, after so long. She trembles next to me, and I know I'm trembling too, and sobs shake me as I hold her close, real and solid and _here_, the sister I thought I'd never see again.

"Taryn…Taryn," I whisper, in a voice I hardly recognize. "Is it really you?"

She hugs me tight, as she hugs Vivienne, and it's a long, long moment before we can all step back, faces wet with tears.

I wipe my eyes, my cheeks. I can't stop staring at her, can't tear my eyes away. I cannot believe this: Taryn. My sister, found so simply and so suddenly at the end of our journey.

"Taryn," Vivienne whispers. "Say something, Taryn."

Taryn's smile vanishes. Pain flashes in her eyes, and she looks down. She still hasn't made a single sound, I realize.

"What?" I demand, chest tightening. "What is it?"

A small voice pipes up. "She can't talk."

I tear my eyes from Taryn, and for the first time take in the two small figures who have crawled out from under the bush with her. Two children, two faerie children, hanging back and watching us nervously. The taller of them, a boy, looks like a tree goblin, but has black eyes rather than red, and no tail. The girl is clutching a homemade ragdoll and glaring at us with extraordinary purple-and-silver eyes. Her hair is even more astonishing: a mane of purest white, shining in the afternoon sun.

And—it strikes me immediately—she looks an awful lot like Taryn.

"What do you mean, can't?" I demand. "Who are you?"

"I'm Philomel," she says, tossing her hair back. "And that's my Mommy."

"And mine," the boy adds.

I feel like I've just been kicked in the solar plexus. "Your _what_?" My eyes fly to Taryn, who's smiling slightly. "Taryn…?"

She nods, still smiling, and moves to stand with the children. They cling to her, still eyeing us suspiciously. Taryn says nothing, but makes a series of strange hand gestures.

The children watch the gestures, and nod before turning back to us. "I'm Philomel," the girl says again.

"And I'm Dogwood," the boy says.

I can't stop gaping at them, but Heather seems to recover quickly. "Hi kids, nice to meet you!" she says cheerfully. "I'm Heather. I'm your Auntie Vivienne's girlfriend."

"And you can call me Connor," Cardan says, speaking for the first time. "I'm a friend of the family."

Taryn breaks her gaze away from me and Vivienne at this, to scowl at him. Her eyes are hard and suspicious as she glares, and it occurs to me that her face is so much more expressive now than I remember, her eyes so much more alive, even as she gives Cardan a long look of distrust and dislike. He squirms under her angry gaze, and looks at me appealingly.

Of course: Taryn only ever knew Cardan as a tormentor and bully. She can't know how things have changed. I pull myself together. "It's true, more or less," I say to her. She raises both eyebrows, face skeptical. I shrug. "Things changed, over the last seven years. A lot of things, including that." I take a deep breath and bow to the children. Taryn's _children_. I still can't believe it. "Pleasure to meet you, Philomel, Dogwood. I'm your mother's sister. Your Aunt Jude." My new title sounds bizarre in my mouth as I say it. Their aunt. I am these children's aunt.

"And I'm your Aunt Vivienne," Vivi curtsies to them. "Also your mother's sister."

Philomel stares with those amazing eyes. "Are you mortal?" she asks, voice so high, so childish and innocent.

"I am," I say. "Vivienne's not."

Philomel turns her eyes on Vivienne. "Why not?"

"Eh?" Vivienne blinks. Behind us, Cardan and Heather are both shaking with laughter.

"Mommy's mortal," Philomel says matter-of-factly, and I feel another dull shock that she is talking about Taryn. Taryn, her mother. "So how come you're not?"

Taryn steps in, making more complex hand gestures at Philomel. The little girl watches Taryn's gestures, and I can see that she understands them, though I cannot.

"Ohhh," she nods at last. "Half and half. Like me!" She giggles.

Perhaps only I see the flinch of pain, instantly hidden, in Taryn's eyes as she nods and signs some more. I stare at her movements. She still hasn't said a single word, I realize, not to me and not to the children.

"Taryn," I say, and my voice sounds strange, "can you really not talk at all?"

Taryn shakes her head, looking away. Beside me, Cardan frowns at her, and I can feel his tension and uneasy curiosity.

"Why not?" I ask. My mind's spinning. Taryn may not have talked much, before her disappearance, but she _could _do it. "What happened?"

"She's never talked," Dogwood says suddenly, and then ducks down behind Taryn as we all turn to look at him.

Taryn nudges Philomel, and gestures some more. "She says that we'll discuss everything back at the house," Philomel says, obviously translating, and then blinks at Taryn. "Are we really taking them back to the house?" She's signing as she talks, I realize, hands tracing gestures seemingly unconsciously.

Taryn nods, and signs some more, hands swift and expert as they fly. She seems to have a whole language in her hands, in her fluttering fingers, that the kids understand completely. Then she and the children gather up the baskets full of fruit, and Taryn beckons us to follow her.

Vivienne dismisses the ragwort steeds, and we all fall into line behind Taryn, following her through the forest. She moves lightly enough, though of course her faerie children slip silent as ghosts through the woods, and she seems to know where she's going. Taryn has lived here a long time, I realize, maybe ever since she vanished. And borne at least one child. And has been voiceless all the while. My head spins with urgent questions that I know she will not answer, at least not right away.

Up ahead, Dogwood yanks on my sister's shirt, and asks if her voice used to sound like mine. Taryn pauses, and I see tears washing into her eyes as she looks away from him. Her eyes are deep wells of pain.

Vivienne and I exchange glances, and she hurries up to our sister. "Taryn? Are you all right?"

She nods, wiping away tears, and strides onward, to where a ladder descends a tall, straight tree. Apparently we will be using the network of treetop roads and bridges we glimpsed from the air. Philomel, however, hangs back, clutching her doll.

"Why are you calling her Taryn?" she asks curiously. I can't look away from her. I can't get over how much she looks like Taryn.

"That's her name." Vivi looks ahead to Taryn, hurrying on toward the ladder. "Or…it was."

"Her name's Albia now," Philomel says with pride and cheer. "Everyone calls her that. 'Cept me and Dogwood, of course. We call her Mommy."

We all of us, Vivienne, Cardan, Heather and I, stare at Taryn's turned back as she takes her kids' hands and pulls them toward the ladder. Two kids, no voice and an assumed name. And, from what I can see, no husband. She's been living out here alone, with two children?

Great Trees. What has been going on in my sister's life?

What _happened _to her?


End file.
